


Dangerous Territory, Part II of the Field of Evermore Series

by Tiger Tyger (Southern_Comfort)



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Action, Cadets, Danger, Death, F/M, Life in Academe, M/M, Romance, Slash, Starfleet Academy, Starfleet Central, Starfleet Operations, Strong McCoy, Teaching, War, straight - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-06
Updated: 2017-06-06
Packaged: 2018-11-09 20:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 55,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11112588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Southern_Comfort/pseuds/Tiger%20Tyger
Summary: How could it be possible for Kirk, Spock, and McCoy to find any trouble during their Earth-based assignments? After all, Jim is only a lowly admiral working under the irascible leadership of Steven Stearns in Fleet Operations; Spock acts as a new teacher for Science and Technology at Star Fleet Academy; and Bones is a new administrator at Medical Operations. More importantly, the three men are working their way around new relationships, adapting to different professional positions, new demands . . . as well as spiritual visitations, aggressive colleagues, jealousy, academic politics, and sudden violence. Come along and watch the next stage in the development of the legends of Star Trek: The Original Series!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Formerly published in zine format.

Jim resisted the tight hold around his chest and arms, attempting to twist, but the grip was too strong. He scissored his legs awkwardly backwards, and that released him for only a moment before his attacker was upon him again, one deft hand twisting his right wrist while the other casually tossed him diagonally over one shoulder.

He hit the ground hard. Panting, sweating, Kirk came to his feet again and attacked, but his rush ended in being ruthlessly pitched over his assailant's hip, strength that far outstripped his own controlling the fall so his neck didn't break.

"I did warn you," Spock said, his face dewed with perspiration. "This can be strenuous for a human."

Kirk lay on the mat panting, his chest heaving, sweat running down his face. He sat up with an effort, and got to his feet, his legs trembling, not quite certain they wanted to be functioning just yet. "What did you call this again?"

"The best translation would be . . . the Kendru discipline. It is of ancient origin; no one is quite certain who created it, but we have found it to be quite effective."

Jim gave him a grimace and gingerly crouched into a fight position. "You're certainly obliterating my ego with it."

Spock's raised eyebrow was comment enough, but he added, "It _is_ taught to children."

"Yeah, yeah, I know, I know," Jim said with a wry smile and a wave of one hand, refusing to be taunted into a bad move. "You're a Vulcan, superior in all things . . . I've heard it before."

The slight smile betrayed the serious mien. _In all things?_

Jim choked out a chuckle and wiped his face with his sleeve. Spock's mind-voice was soft and intimate. _Don't distract me. Sparring with you makes me hot to begin with._

_Then, considering we have gained an audience, I will desist._

Jim looked around, sighing when he saw the large circle of cadets around them, their dark blue uniforms wedged tightly together. "Don't you have better things to do?" he growled.

The group fidgeted, but no one moved, their bright and interested faces animated, speaking softly to each other in whatever dialect suited them. Most spoke Standard, but from here, Jim couldn't hear what they said.

 _They admire your courage,_ Spock told him, his ears easily able to garner the gist of the cadets' whispers. _And your persistence._

Jim shook his head. _If that's the only lesson they learn in four years. . . ._

_Indeed._

They returned to their workout, Spock's soft voice teaching Jim the technique before using it. It was an effective method for them; Jim learned best this way, and he liked being close to Spock. Before they'd been bonded, the necessary proximity of sparring had been his favorite method of getting under his stern first officer's skin. Now, he found, when Spock guided his body through the mental link they shared, his muscles retained the memory of what they'd been taught much better.

Spock finally called a halt to the session, and the assembled cadets gave a groan of disappointment. Captain Spock turned to them and with one glance sent the entire bunch packing, the kids falling over each other to get out of the gym fastest and away from that penetrating glare.

Jim laughed and grabbed the towel Spock tossed to him. "I think you like doing that."

Spock said nothing, but Jim could feel a small sense of satisfaction radiating from him.

They began to walk back to their quarters from the gymnasium, located in the park-like campus of Star Fleet Academy. Their home was a small, temporary apartment that they had made their own, conveniently near to Star Fleet Central.

"What have you got today?" Jim asked, wiping the sweat off his chest and back before quickly donning his jacket. It was one thing to walk around _Enterprise_ without his shirt, but entirely another to do it on campus. Besides that, Spock wasn't entirely comfortable with Kirk's even partial nudity around anyone but him.

_You are mine._

While the Vulcan's mind-voice was casual enough, the emotions beneath were not. Jim could feel the swirl of possessiveness that laced Spock's every thought of him and, having been on the wrong side of that rage once, he had no desire to deal with it again. That hadn't been much of a problem while they'd been on leave, but now back on Earth, Jim would have to be more aware of what signals he was sending out. Not responding in words, Jim sent his own feelings of covetous, desirous jealousy, enough of it to make Spock's eyes widen and his step falter slightly. No one but Jim noticed, because no one else was as much of a Spock-watcher as he was. But he'd made his point.

It didn't take them long to return to their quarters, perhaps ten minutes. Spock's hand on the small of his back warned him the moment before the door panel closed. He turned in time to receive an armful of tall, wiry Vulcan with a heavy erection. "Tease me at your peril, _th'y'la_ ," Spock murmured, dark eyes bright and keen.

Jim hurriedly began removing Spock's clothes. "How much time do we have?"

"43.12 minutes."

"Enough, enough," Jim muttered, shucking off his own pants and jacket in record time, kicking off his casual shoes so hard they landed in opposite ends of the living room. Spock grasped him like a child, tucked him under his arm, then walked softly into the bedroom and tossed him on the bed. He pounced, pinning Kirk to the soft mattress like some kind of offering to a famished god, his legs spread by Spock's knees, arms held by his hands.

"You are mine."

 _Oh, god, oh, god._ It made him so hot when Spock got all possessive. Jim went liquid beneath him, wanting to do anything to please him. "Yes," he ground out, barely able to speak around the pulse that slammed through his throat, his body. He could feel Spock's cock moving slowly over his, spreading the fluid they were both leaking.

"Say it."

He couldn't argue, didn't want to resist. "Yours," he managed to pant, and satisfied, Spock's head dipped lower, taking in a peaked nipple and sucking hard. Jim's hips lifted, wanting the friction, needing it, but he was going nowhere with Spock planted on him as he was. He ground into the hard flesh above him, twisting in intimate longing, bound by his lover to this moment, this soul-stealing feeling. "Yours," he repeated in a voice that sounded nothing like his own, and Spock leaned over him, eyes flashing, an inferno overtaking the calmness of just moments before. He heard Spock's growl moments before his mouth was taken, a fierce slick tongue demanding his compliance.

A strong grip locked around their organs, binding them together in wet, messy intimate kinship. Spock was so soft here, so hard; Jim could feel the muscle beneath the skin, sliding against his own. He thrust against it, wanting more, needing more. It was good, so good, but just beyond his reach was better. He knew it, had felt it before.

"Slower," Spock whispered against his lips, voice deep and dark. A shiver rippled over his skin.

"No," Jim complained. "Now!"

Another growl answered him, and Jim leaked even more.

"Soon, _th'y'la_ . . . soon."

"Don't . . . have . . . time," Jim managed to gasp, even though Spock's mouth had latched onto his neck, a move guaranteed to make him writhe. Spock began to thrust against his own grip, lending needed friction to Jim's cock, as they rubbed against one another. In response, Spock moved lower and bit down on the previously laved nipple, teasing the soft nub between his teeth, leaving him suspended between aching pleasure and insistent pain.

Jim shot to orgasm so fast he lost all ability to breathe. His vision went white, and all he knew was Spock shooting fiery jets of semen onto his thigh, his lover making odd, whimpering sounds deep in his throat. They collapsed together, finding all sensory ability lost for a long while in the afterglow.

Kirk swam to the surface, trying to ignore the warm, liquid feeling in his bones. "Time?"

"18.47 minutes to duty stations."

Jim uttered a few choice phrases, and rolled out of the bed, dizzy and weak. He stood there for a moment, letting his brain and body go from post-euphoric haze to semi-alert, before staggering to the bathroom and into the shower. Five minutes later, he was far more alert, presentable, and began to quickly dress.

Spock watched from the bed. The Vulcan lay on his side, one hand cocked to hold up his head, while the other rested along his hip. Jim took a moment to admire the long, lean length of him: the olive-dark nipples and sturdy chest, well-furred to protect him from the cold desert nights of his home world. Tight abdominal muscles tapered down to strong hips, sturdy rectangular hipbones that jutted slightly, his pelvis square and blocky, strong thigh muscles relaxed in this moment. Bones had once said that touching Spock was much like stroking piano wire covered in thick velvet, and it was true. Even relaxed like this, his impressive musculature was only so soft, the ferocity of his feline predatory forebears evident in the strength of his body.

His cock lay quiescent against one thigh, still thick and darkly olive, always ready for more action. Jim smiled, distracted from putting on his boots by the sight.

"12.21 minutes, Jim."

Though he'd prefer to ogle his lover a while longer, and even better, crawl between the sheets for a more lengthy session, he couldn't be late for duty the first day at Ops. With a sigh, he shot to his feet, pulled his tunic to neatness and took a quick glance in a mirror before leaning down to kiss Spock roughly, then hurrying out of the room and their apartment.

 

 

Spock lay back against the sheets. His body tingled in aftermath and he mentally reviewed a paradoxical _koan_ to focus his logic. After he returned to physical and emotional balance, he rolled from the bed and walked into the bathroom. Neither he nor Jim had eaten breakfast, so he ate after his shower, a wheat roll and a cup of pineapple, a fruit he had always been unreasonably fond of.

After straightening their rooms, which only took fifteen minutes due to their constricted size, he turned to his computer terminal. It was located in the small office space overlooking the windows. He had learned yesterday that his first academy assignment would be teaching four courses—one each in varied fields. In mathematics, advanced analytical statistics; in physics, electromagnetic radiation; in chemistry, spatial thermodynamics, and finally, one that dovetailed into his research well, astrophysical anomalies.

He sat down at his desk to review the previous syllabi for the courses. None of them were particularly difficult, but Spock had never taught a mostly human class, and understood that what may have seemed simple for him would not be for his students. Therefore, the rate of learning would have to be considered for each. After review, he decided to maintain the syllabi largely as they were, with only a few changes to include new thinking in each field. At least the classes were on the more difficult end of the spectrum for the academy, and he would be interested in determining the caliber of those cadets who would be going on to shipboard or planet-based assignments when they graduated at the end of the academic year.

That is, _if_ they graduated. The rate of failure in the senior year of the academy was three times that of any of the others, simply because so much more was demanded of cadets. Not only were they required to cope with a much heavier course load and stressors, they were also given practical assignments in varied areas of Star Fleet in the form of internships. Their performance was graded by the officer to whom they reported, and included a great many items, including punctuality (a concept Spock doubted most humans understood), adaptability, performance, leadership qualities, ingenuity, and most of all, character and responsibility. Cadets in the Command rota would also undergo the _Kobiyashi Maru_ scenario, a daunting test of one's command potential in a seemingly unwinnable challenge. It was a completely psychological examination, determining how one dealt with failure. Too many cadets never knew what it was to face a significant disaster and froze under the strain. Many initially coped with the test and subsequent disappointment well, only to have it raze their self-confidence over time and wreck their budding career prospects. Not all were cut out for leadership; Spock knew that he was a capable, but not gifted, leader. However, he had often enjoyed watching Kirk use his magnetism and charisma to enhance his already stellar leadership skills, though he could never have emulated him.

He spent the rest of the day reading and reviewing the relevant texts for the classes, and adding more student readings. His expectations were stringent, the classes rigorous, and he would accept nothing less than proficiency in his cadets. He analyzed his schedule and noted when he would be able to have office hours, posting them onto the course sites, as well as all relevant texts, assignments, and syllabi. Spock sent out the first assignment for each class, a simple preparatory chapter, and then signed off the academy website before entering his own mail access system.

As expected, his mother's weekly message had arrived. Apparently, she and Sarek were to be staying on Vulcan for a time. It was to be expected, he mused. While Amanda was chronologically younger than her husband, she had not aged as well as a Vulcan would, and the frequent trips that were required of the Ambassador of Vulcan and his mate had begun to exhaust her. Spock had noted his father's decelerating travel schedule over the past 4.3 years with approval. In some cases, it would be just as efficient for him to mediate long-range than on-site, and for those that required an actual ambassador, he sent his juniors. Only for the most important and high-level issues, both for the Federation and Vulcan, was Sarek dispatched, which relieved him of all but the most major negotiations.

Amanda was obviously aware of all this, but she hadn't disagreed too strenuously. She was a pragmatist in everything except her family relations. Her temper, on that subject and others relating to her child or her spouse, was both passionate and articulate, painfully so in some instances. She did not approve of Spock being bonded to Jim, more because of Kirk's reputation as a notorious womanizer than for any personal reasons of dislike. Amanda feared Jim would bring them both to ruin with his sensual appetites, but Spock was not dismayed. He sensed the depths of Jim's feelings for him, the majority of which he doubted even Kirk was aware of. Jim wasn't interested in anyone else, and had not been active in his sexuality for some time before they were bonded, content to spend his free time with Spock, or McCoy, if his First Officer was busy.

He reached out and gently stroked Kirk's mind, receiving in reply the muted buzz of deep, focused thought, and withdrew, not wanting to distract his mate from his work. He began to draft a reply to Amanda, and stored it, before rising and moving into the kitchen area to drink a large glass of papaya juice.

Returning to the desk, he logged onto the Star Fleet Central site and began to review the administrative minutiae and reports regarding _Enterprise_ 's refit. He was pleased to note the design changes that Montgomery Scott had approved, and moreso to see the less-than-stellar concepts that he had vetoed. The architectural engineers were furious with him, Spock noticed with little surprise, if their near-hysterical memos were to be taken as read. Apparently they believed _Enterprise_ should be a testing ground for the more "unusual" engineering concepts, while Scott was of the mind that the ship be a working prototype for others of the class. Spock had previously forwarded to Scott the requisite changes he and Kirk would choose to implement, and Scott had dutifully taken them into consideration when drafting his ship plans. Not all were workable at this date, but Spock would keep bringing them forward in the hope that Scott's genius for miraculous feats could be stimulated.

Spock analyzed the latest design plans with an eye to the viability of the construction and the validity of the architecture. While Scott was not the final word on the subject, his booming Scottish voice could be quite penetrating in the halls of the engineering sections of Fleet Central, and most didn't choose to aggravate the occasionally pugnacious, and already legendary, Chief Engineer. Spock highlighted the most important changes to the design and forwarded it to Kirk for his review. The Vulcan stifled a sigh as it went. He and Jim had an ongoing disagreement regarding the refit, mostly dealing with the scientific and military aspects of future missions. Spock was of the opinion that greater scientific exploration was required, which demanded an expanded science section; Jim, contrarily, insisted that he wanted his ship to be able to protect, and if the occasion warranted, attack, those who would harm her and her crew, which predicated greater engineering and weapons sections. In the unenviable position as middle man, Scott stood, attempting to give them both what they desired by enlarging the ship's dimensions, which required a greater warp drive and increased dilithium crystal output, making Central accountants complain of the additional expense for _Enterprise_ and others of her class in future.

At 2000 hours, he rose from the computer station again, and stretched. _Jim?_

 _Hmm?_ Kirk's mind-voice was heavy with the depth of his focus on the strategic paper he was reading.

 _You need to eat and sleep, Admiral_ , Spock sent with a dry, admonishing, tone in his voice. He could sense the knots in Kirk's shoulders and the stiffness in his body from sitting for so long.

_What time. . .? Damn, it's that late? I'm on my way._

Spock shut down his side of the link with satisfaction, and turned to the replicator with a faint smile. The door chimes interrupted him, and he left the small kitchen area, then walked through the dining/living area to open it.

Leonard McCoy stood on the doorstep, his expression one of irritation. "You get back to 'Frisco after eight weeks, and you can't give your friends a call?" he snapped.

The Vulcan waved a hand, ushering him inside. "Jim did send a note advising you of our return, I believe."

"Days ago. Just thought I'd see you before we all went back to work!"

Spock took a moment to take in the other man's appearance. The best indicator of his temper was his large blue eyes, and they were sparkling, belying the tone of his voice. His dark hair had been freshly cut, and he was dressed in uniform, but he looked remarkably well. His skin was tanned slightly, giving him a healthy glow that had never been present onboard ship. "You appear rested."

McCoy gave him a happy smile, his previous irritation short-lived, and sat on the couch in their living space, crossing his legs. "I'm glad to be back on Earth, Spock, to tell you the truth. Some down-time was just what I needed. Where's Jim?"

"Returning from his office."

"That might take a while," McCoy grumbled.

Spock was truly pleased to see his friend, but puzzled by his response. "It is only 400 meters from Operations to this residence."

"That's not the point. Is he still getting stopped by every Tom, Dick, and Klingon wanting to shake his hand?"

Spock shook his head. He didn't understand the human concept of "celebrity," and had no wish to endure it further. Though Kirk had more patience with it than he did, the novelty had worn off for him as well. "It is unlikely to occur in the halls of Star Fleet."

"That's what you think," McCoy told him with a grimace. "It'll probably be even worse there until people get used to having him around."

Jim's entry forestalled further conversation. He turned when he saw McCoy and grinned, the smile lighting up his handsome face. "Bones! About time you deigned to visit, doctor."

"Yeah, yeah," McCoy retorted, shaking his hand, and getting a swift hug in reply. "Just didn't want to break up the honeymoon," he said slyly, his gaze running over Spock.

The Vulcan refused to react to the jibe, and turned abruptly on his heel to return to preparing dinner. Presuming that McCoy would stay, he ordered enough for three.

"So, how is Medical Ops?" Kirk asked, wolfing down his food at the dining table a few minutes later. Obviously, Spock realized, a mid-day meal had not occurred today. He would have to take that into consideration and insist on Kirk's eating a substantial breakfast.

McCoy would be teaching at the Medical Collegia of the academy, working for Star Fleet Medical Operations, doing research, and writing a textbook of xenopathology. "Could they stretch me any thinner?" the doctor complained. "There are still only twenty-four hours in a day, and I have to sleep sometimes!"

Jim chuckled. "You know how Fleet feels about utilizing recently spaced officers, Bones. They want to squeeze out every bit of knowledge while they have them planet-side. Besides, we add much-needed practicality to the mundane processes, which makes it easier for us when we're out there."

"I know, I know," McCoy grumbled. "And it makes sense. I just never expected I'd have to go back to space to get any rest."

Kirk laughed and patted his friend's arm in commiseration. "And least you're not sitting on your ass all day."

"That would be a relief!"

"Trust me, Bones, it's not all it's cracked up to be." Jim sighed, and sat back, pushing away his empty plate. "I have a stack of manual disks on my desk. Stearns wants me to 'refresh my memory' of all the rules and regulations."

McCoy groaned. "Sarcasm, anyone?"

Jim nodded. "I'm sure there's a little payback in there. I haven't seen him, so I only received a memo from him on what I should be doing until _he_ gets back. Apparently, I'm going to be the conduit for all those niggling requests that are so important ship-board: personnel issues, transfers, promotions. . . ." Kirk trailed off as he dumped his napkin on the table.

"Paperwork. _Ugh_ ," McCoy echoed. "But you know it's only temporary, Jim. It's your 'shaking out' phase. He's testing you."

"He's testing my patience," Jim complained, but then his face brightened. "You and Spock start your teaching schedules tomorrow at the academy. All those bright, young minds," he teased.

McCoy smacked his hands together. "I can't wait. Nothing like a little corruption!"

Jim laughed again. "Bones, you're incorrigible."

"Thank you, admiral," McCoy replied with a wink. "Someone has to teach them that they're doctors first, and Star Fleet officers after. That they need to be able to think for themselves, to smack their captains when they require it and offer a drink otherwise, to be a sounding board for their crew as much as a healer, and to stay out of the way when the shooting starts. It might as well be me."

"I don't believe Star Fleet Medical had you in mind when they imagined a prototype physician, Leonard," Spock told him dryly.

"Hmm, I know." The grin fell off his face, and his expression sobered. "But someone has to realize that these kids are coming out of Academy Medical ill-prepared for what they're going to handle onboard ship. Trauma medicine has to be an integral part of their training or they're never going to be able to deal with a ship full of sick or injured crew. And no one is teaching them how to handle the stress involved, or the psychiatric issues that have to be dealt with if the patient is going to return to full-function as a crewmember. Sure, they give them a class or two, but it's never "down-and-dirty, stop-the-bleeding-before-the-patient's-dead" kind of stuff." He crossed his long arms against his chest, an expression of stubborn resolve coming over his gentle features. "A dose of practicality would not hurt Star Fleet Medical, and I plan on giving it to them."

"Bravo," Jim said, clapping his hand on his friend's shoulder. "By the way, did you know Christine Chapel was accepted into the next medical program for deep-space?"

"Yup," McCoy replied with a satisfied smile. "I . . . er, that is, we, Jim, put her name in."

"We, huh? Did you think to tell me about it?" Kirk asked him with mock-irritation, "I saw her today and she gave wondered why I had taken the initiative to put in a recommendation for her; I didn't have a clue what she was talking about until she explained. Thanks, Bones!" he grimaced. "She must have thought I'd lost my mind!"

"Between Spock and me, we have your signature down pat," the beaming doctor assured him with a smirk. "Besides, the recommendation was far better coming from you. That way, she doesn't see me as her mentor, and she gets the ego boost of thinking _Admiral_ Kirk believes she'd make a damned fine doctor."

"Which he does," Jim agreed.

"Of course he does," Bones replied with a nod. "And now that Spock's off the market, she needed something to do with her life."

Spock refused to react to the pointed comment with anything but, "Nurse Chapel will make a fine doctor, Jim. As long as she ignores everything she learned from McCoy."

"Ha!" Bones snapped. "That will be the day, you pointy-eared calculator."

His eyebrow lifted. "Your rhetoric has lost its edge, doctor."

They were still arguing when McCoy left for a date. Jim stared at Spock over the rim of his wine glass, a smile creasing his lips. "You just love riling him up, don't you?"

Spock considered for a moment. "It affords a certain level of entertainment," he admitted. "I wouldn't want our relationship to change due to our Bonding." The level of trust and familiarity between himself and McCoy had been hard-earned and difficult to attain. A marriage could change the relationship between any triad, never mind one as integral to their lives as this one; none of them wanted any sense of distance to intrude upon it.

"He's family," Jim agreed, rising and walking into Spock's arms, sighing as they closed around him.

"Indeed. I believe we have reminded him of that this evening." He nuzzled Kirk's hair.  "And you? Is it so very terrible to be an admiral?"

"Ask me again at the end of the week," Jim grumbled. "By then, my butt will be flat as two pancakes."

Spock stroked the firm globes. "I do not believe that would be possible."

"You're prejudiced."

"Very much so," he agreed, moving away to clear the table and begin their evening routine. "Did you review the ship schematics I sent to you?"

They began a discussion of the changes that Scott had incorporated until it was time for Spock's evening meditations. Jim was his usual charming self by then, cheered by his favorite subject, and settled down happily to read something other than a manual.


	2. Chapter 2

The next morning Spock stood outside the Science and Mathematics Division of the Academy. He was early for his 0900 meeting with the administrators of both divisions and decided to walk the quad to determine what architectural changes had been added since he had last been here. The buildings themselves were covered in white magna-steel, much like that which coated ships of the line, and had weathered over time to a silver sheen. They were centrally located within the Academy Collegium proper and arranged in a quadrangle facing inward, with a statue of Zephram Cochrane in the center, the grassy space surrounded by oak trees. Many benches were located around the area, where students could sit and discuss their work. At the moment, the space was empty, but contained a subtle tension, as if it subliminally knew that this was the first day of fall attendance and it would once again resound with many voices and life-forms. He mentally shook his head; McCoy's fanciful comments about the collegia being alive in a sense had infected his perceptions.

As expected in a quasi-military setting, the facility was spotless, no errant leaf daring to fall to mar its perfection. Spock entered through one of the doorways and felt immediately chilled. The temperature within the collegium was maintained at a human-comfortable seventy degrees, as it was ship-board. With a thought, he mentally reset his body's core temperature to offset the coolness, and continued on his way.

Each professor maintained their own classroom, so that it was the cadets who moved about and not their teachers. His office and classroom were located immediately next to one another, at the end of one of the quadrangles on the topmost floor. He inclined an eyebrow as he noted the location. It was a choice position, nearest to the doors and the lift. Obviously, someone had realized that he would not care to be placed in the center of cadet activity, amidst groups of excitable trainees. _Excellent._

His office was relatively large, and contained a rounded oak-veneer desk with an embedded computer keyboard at the center, and a screen angled beneath the desktop, leaving the desk top clear. The chair was thick with cushioning and boasted a strong, high back. A number of shelves had been placed behind the desk, within easy reach, and he had a wide window and seat, that looked out onto the Medical Sciences quadrangle. Two chairs were placed by that window, surrounding a small, but serviceable oval table, in the same oak-veneer.

Noting the time, he rose and took the elevator to the lowest floor, where the administrative offices were housed. He was precisely on time when he presented himself at the office of Dr. Bader Turlofsky of the Mathematics Division. It opened immediately and he stepped inside.

He'd never seen anything like the disarray he found in this office. Flimsies and discs covered every available surface, and were continued in tall piles upon the floor, along with ancient hardcover books. Turlofsky himself was a short, balding, paunchy human of indeterminate age, who was speaking softly to his plants in Russian as he watered them, his back to Spock. He turned and gave a wide smile. "On time, as I expected. What did I tell you, Randile?"

An Andarasian entered the office through a connecting doorway, which had been open. Its eyestalks rose in interest from its pale green, rounded head, the mouth a slash of an opening without teeth. Its body shuffled forward in an odd, slowly pedal manner. Andarasians were plant-derived life-forms, and their bodies were shaped in the form of a bulb, their arms leafy stubs, with delicate, fern-like fingers, while its legs were root forms and hidden beneath the green, downy covering to the feet. In all his travels, Spock had never met an Andarasian before, and he was interested in discovering their nature.

The mouth did not move, but a reedy voice came from the voco-translator strapped to its chest. "Yes, Bader. Welcome, Captain Spock. I am Randile of Andarasia in the Cygnus Cluster. We are very pleased that you will be joining the faculty here."

Spock nodded his head at both beings. "I believe I will prove to be of service to the academy."

"Don't go damning yourself with faint praise, Spock," Turlofsky chuckled. "I nearly had to physically wrestle Wryaleth in Computing to get you here. For some reason, she insisted that you belonged to her."

"She would have won, Bader," Randile softly warned, its voice containing a buzzing sound.

"Yes, yes, I know. Stop laughing at me," the human said with a grin, cheerfully admitting his lack. He explained, "Dr. Wryaleth's a Turgarian, 3.5 meters tall, with seriously fierce tusks, and I couldn't tell you what she weighs. She'd squash me like a mosquito."

Spock blinked. A Turgarian was one of the most truculent species within the Federation. It did not pose well for Turlofsky's future health to irritate one on anyone's behalf.

He continued: "She didn't slaughter me outright because I told her we'd let her borrow you upon occasion. For graduate seminars and such." His face was red, a sign of embarrassment Spock did not understand. As far as he was concerned, managing not to be injured by a Turgarian was a sign of good preservation instincts, and calm, cool intellect.

"Bader is concerned that you would not be stimulated sufficiently in the Math and Sciences Divisions alone," Randile commented, deftly changing the subject.

"There is much information that I will be able to impart to academy cadets, Doctor Turlofsky, and I have been told that I am an able teacher. That being said, my work here will allow me sufficient time to continue my own research, and oversee executive issues with regard to the _Enterprise_ refit. Of course, I would not wish to engender any . . . animosity within academy divisions, and would be pleased to assist Dr. Wryaleth when she so chooses, as I would any other area that requires my expertise."

Both Bader and Randile gave an audible sigh. "Thank you, Captain. You can't imagine how many people want to work with you. I've got a pile of requests for your attention already."

"Please forward them to me, and I will respond accordingly. For those I have an interest, I will comply, but where I do not believe my skills would be best utilized, I will refuse. For each, I will advise you of my decision, so that you will remain informed."

"Who said Vulcans were difficult?" Bader said under his breath. Spock heard him anyway but pretended not to, as did Randile.

"Have you reviewed my syllabi?" he asked his division administrators, changing the subject. "I had not received a response from you as of 0500 this morning."

"We thought we'd discuss it here. Please have a seat."

Spock settled himself in a chair and waited. Randile did not sit; Spock was uncertain whether Andarasians could bend their bodies to a sitting position. It did move to stand beside Bader.

"We thought, perhaps, your expected teaching plan might be too ambitious," Randile offered, its eye stalks focused on Spock. He analyzed its appendages. The eyes themselves were pale green with a network of white veins, surrounding a black iris, and green pupil. _Interesting._

"Such cannot be said until I have ascertained the current level of my students. I have not made significant changes to the syllabi, only attempted to introduce relevance to shipboard requirements when possible."

"Hmm," Bader murmured, biting his lip. "That's always a good idea. Randile?"

The Andarasian didn't speak for a moment, closing its eyes and shivering lightly. It finally replied, "I am concerned that four classes will be too heavy a load for a new teacher. I also will be interested in your methods, Captain Spock, and wonder if they will be similar to the usual academy format, or something entirely different. You can perceive my concerns, I'm sure. Therefore, both Bader and I will make an appearance in your classroom as and when we deem fit."

Its tone was clipped and final even through the voco-translator. Spock nodded and stifled a sigh. Such oversight was to be expected, he supposed, though unappreciated. He had been training crewmembers in previous postings for the last fifteen years, maintaining the education and research of his scientific staff while ably dealing with a first officer's commitments. He did not see how academy cadets would prove a challenge. Nevertheless, aware of just how sensitive some in academia could be about their territorial purview, he would 'tolerate' their review procedures as a necessary requirement of the academy, and having little to no bearing on his abilities.

Turlofsky watched his response, and turned his head to gaze at Randile. Some kind of silent communication passed between them, and then the human looked at him, peering heavily, silvery-grey brows drawn down over pewter eyes. Whatever he saw must have satisfied him.

"I have to apologize, Captain Spock, for our less than . . . welcoming . . . attitude. Randile and I were both unnerved by the news that a Vulcan officer was being assigned here, since neither of us has worked with one before. Your reputation is quite impressive, as a scientist, researcher, and first officer." He hesitated, and then muttered, "We had some concerns that you might be difficult, someone who would be hard to work with, possibly demanding and argumentative, and therefore, we threw everything we could think of to rattle your poise and confirm our ill opinion."

Spock gazed at them both. "I do not understand your behavior. Though I do not deny that I am Vulcan, I am a Star Fleet officer. My mission here is to teach the classes assigned to me. I will do so to the absolute best of my abilities. I do not see why you should have any concerns whatsoever for either the trainees or your colleagues." He realized his tone sounded affronted, and affected a more bland expression.

Randile again gave off that buzzing sound, equivalent to a laugh. "That is why we must apologize. We . . . assumed much of what a Vulcan would be like. I have never met one before, and neither has Bader. There are no Vulcan cadets at this time." The root body gave an odd shake, like a shrug. "Even administrators of a multispecies academy can be blinded by preconceptions upon occasion. Will you accept our apology?"

"Should I expect further misunderstandings?"

Bader nodded, again flushing. "There may be a few. You are still the only Vulcan in the Fleet, Captain, since the loss of the _Intrepid_ and the rumors flying around about Vulcans are fairly appalling—"

"What he's trying to say is that you might have quite a few questions during your breaking-in period," Randile interrupted. "Cadets are nothing if not curious."

"Yeah. Randile would know. He's the only Andarasian in Fleet, too."

Spock inclined his head. He remembered with a suppressed shudder how Lt. Stiles had treated him, due to the fact that Romulans and Vulcans had divergent, but similar, bloodlines. He was quite aware of the subtle strain of xenobigotry that ran within Fleet, and had done what he could to diminish its affects. Nevertheless, there were still those species within the Federation who were personally intolerant of others, though publically maintaining a polite façade.

He was also disappointingly aware that he was biased by a culturally inherited frame of reference. Most Vulcans believed themselves racially superior, due to their rational and intellectual natures. Spock, being one of the most intellectually exceptional of his people, had to consciously work to reject such paradigms, which was why he espoused IDIC so fiercely.

"Very well. I believe we will be able to work together, for the benefit of the cadets. I would appreciate your _preconceptions_ be shunted aside, so that a rational and reasonable dialogue between us may occur."

Bader's appreciation was quite vocal, while Randile stood quietly aside, but in ready agreement.

He returned to his office immediately after the meeting, putting aside their concerns as irrelevant to the actual work required of him. Spock reviewed the lesson plan he had created for his first class, advanced statistics, and stepped through the connecting doorway from his office to the classroom.

 

 

". . .  therefore, I would like to present to you an Esteemed Fellow of the College of Trauma Surgeons, renowned xenobiologist, active clinical researcher, noted author, good ole' boy, and the new Director of Medical-Surgical Training for Space-Based Missions . . ."

 _Wait for it_ , he thought wryly.

”Leonard McCoy!"

The applause was heavier than expected, McCoy thought, walking up to the lectern and smiling, shaking Dr. Bradley Grant's hand hard, and smiling even wider when he winced, the wily skunk. _"Just want you to say a few words to a select group. .  ."_ HA! It felt like the entire medical college faculty was here. _Damn that man!_

McCoy hated speaking in public. He'd rather be shot full of cordrazine. And Brad Grant knew it. The director general of the Academy Medical Collegia was a lifetime politician and administrator with a smile that might even put Jim Kirk's to shame.

"Thank you, thank you," he said, wishing people would sit down. The acoustics in the auditorium were excellent, and he didn't need to speak much beyond a whisper to be heard by all and sundry. "All right, already!" he said with an exasperated chuckle, and the group finally sat and waited for him to speak.

"No doubt you, and the rest of the Federation, are sick to death of _Enterprise_ and her crew by now."

He received chuckles and a smattering of applause.

"Good!" He hesitated, and then added, "I know I am."

Louder laughter, this time more sincere.

"I swear we've been on every Net site there is. Our mugs were plastered on billboards, emags, galaxy-wide newsbands and even, I've heard, at the UFP as promotional material." He gave a groan and covered his face with one hand. "Oh, the indignity."

Real laughter this time. _Much better._

"Well, I've had my ten minutes of fame," he rapped out sharply, his tone that of a surgeon demanding instantaneous compliance from his staff. "We have a new job to do. And that job is to form the best possible medical teams for our crews on long- and short-term missions. And as you all know, it's not an easy task."

He waited for the expected nervous shuffling of the bureaucrats, and when they were done, continued, "I've been out there. I've seen what works. I've seen what doesn't."

McCoy stood up and walked around the stage, his gaze focusing on the people around him, softening his voice, forcing the audience to really listen to his words. "All the bells and whistles of technology won't help if the person providing care hasn't the faintest clue what the devil he's doing. If he's not prepared to be up to his elbows in blood and guts of every hue and scent, on a battlefield, while there are phasers and proton bombs going off all around him . . . then we've done nothing. If she isn't able to analyze a psych eval and recognize that a crewmember is going to go violently round the bend . . . then we've achieved nothing. If they aren't primed to see the problem quickly, appraise it successfully, and seek a solution . . . then we've failed in our goals to our doctors and to our patients."

The room had become deathly quiet.

"My job is to take the basis of quality care that you have created, and make it better. And to do that, I'm going to need help. I'm going to need you to put aside any petty bureaucratic bull that's been allowed to fester, and get off your collective asses. I need you to think, people!" he snapped. "I want ideas; I don’t care how far-fetched. Drop into my office. Trip me on the stairs. Send me mail. Skywrite!"

More laughter. "Listen, I don't care how you do it, but communicate ideas, thoughts, questions, and complaints, with each other and with me." He let his drawl shine through, "I'm a charming Southern gentleman. You'll _like_ talking with me."

"Most of the time," Grant grumbled with a smile, loud enough to be heard by everyone.

Shy chuckles.

"Alright, enough of me. Brad shanghaied me into talking this morning, but now I'd like to hear from you. We'll take a break for some coffee, and then my staff, and anyone else interested, can come back."

Twenty minutes later, after a much needed bathroom break, and a cup of hot, black coffee, McCoy sat down on the stage, ignoring the gasps of surprise from the audience. "Come on, I don't bite. Talk to me." There were fewer people here now, but more than he had expected.

There was stifled conversation, but no one stood up.

"Well, this is a switch. Most doctors can't wait to open their mouths," he opined softly.

"What was the worst thing you ever had to do as a doctor on _Enterprise_?" someone asked, an unknown voice in the crowd.

"I like to know who I'm talking to, son," McCoy said gently, slipping into what Jim called "his small-town doctor" voice.

A young human male stood up, flushing and fidgeting. His dark eyes looked like two buckeyes in a barrel of buttermilk, he was that nervous.

By his behavior, McCoy presumed his predecessor had not been high on the 'community' approach to medical administration and had stifled or repressed any ideas his staff had. _That_ _dumbass_. "Well, I don't know if there was only one. It depends on what you mean by worst. . . ."

And that morning he began his life as an administrator.

 

 

Two weeks later, Jim's desk was awash with flimsies, disks, comp tablets of every size and description, and evidence of numerous cups of coffee. He'd had meetings with every person in Ops, besides Stearns, and had gotten a much firmer grasp of the department's policies, many of which he didn't agree with.

His administrative officer, a young go-getter by the name of Nils Neely was a bright, likeable, and obviously upwardly mobile lieutenant. He'd been born on a Federation colony, and his violet gaze, fuschia skin, great height and amazing strength were indicative of the Venusian systems and their elevated surface pressure and temperature.

Nils sat opposite him as they reviewed Kirk's schedule, a comp pad on his lap, spidery digits stroking over the device. "There is a cocktail party at Admiral Stearns' residence tomorrow evening, sir, at 1900. Formal dress required."

"Purpose?" Jim growled, his back thoroughly cramped. He shifted occasionally to stretch, but it wasn't helping. As much as he sat back in the hot seat on _Enterprise_ , he'd moved around plenty as well.

"You, sir," Nils told him with a faint smile. "It was meant as an introduction to all the Ops officers and their spouses, sir, but you've already met with everyone, so. . . ."

Jim chuckled. "I've stolen his thunder, haven't I?"

"Somewhat, sir, but I'm sure the Boss will perceive your actions as they were meant. If I may say so, sir, it's been a while since a new Ops officer has been so      . . . pro-active."

"You mean, that Stearns has scared them spitless, don't you, Nils?" Kirk asked with a grin. "No, no, don't answer that. I know it doesn't do to get on Stearns' bad side, but I'm already there. Can't do too much more harm to my personal reputation with him, now can I?"

Neely visibly bit down on a smile. "Perhaps not, Admiral. But then, there's always room for improvement, right, sir?"

"We hope," Jim agreed. "If that's all, Nils. . . ?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll see you at Stearns' tomorrow?"

"If you wish, sir."

Jim gave his second an appraising glance. "Aren't you here to remind me to be politically correct, Neely?"

The violet gaze brightened and a flush darkened the bright skin. "Er—I am, sir. Amongst . . . other things."

Kirk laughed. He could only imagine the line Neely had to tread between him and Stearns. "You can't do that if you're at home, Nils. Get your dress uniform out of mothballs."

"Aye, sir. Good night, sir."

"Night."

Jim sat back and looked over his new domain, a huge and ancient desk, worn with the sweat and toil of previous occupants. He shifted his shoulders and twisted his neck, listening to the popping noises. Pulling out his briefcase, a battered metal job left by the previous occupant, he tossed everything into it, to work on them at home, then locked his desk and made his way out of Central.

It was 2200 hours, but the halls were still active, some offices manned 24/7. Those were the strategic think-tanks of Operations, and Jim wished like hell he was there instead of in administration. It was what Nogura had expected, but the place was Stearns' baby, and unless and until he was willing for Jim to be a part of it, he'd be pushing paper. Though that didn't mean he couldn't say hello now and then.

He stuck his head though a door, gaze alighting on Nolan Feehan, a friend from the Academy. "Hey, Nolan."

"Hiya, Jim," he replied absently, and then turned a little more red-faced than usual. "Um, sorry, Admiral Kirk, sir," he corrected.

Jim waved away the apology. "It's Jim, Nolan, like it's always been."

Kirk didn't go any further into the room; Strategic Ship Ops, or SSO, was more guarded and secure than Nogura's personal office. Just a footstep wrong here would set off alarms, and the Security officers that patrolled these offices would definitely shoot and hit what they were aiming at.

Feehan was a corpulent human, his red hair having long slipped away to leave a shiny, bald head. The joke was that the heat from his brain had burned it all off before he hit puberty. Nolan was the top analyst in SSO and he preferred the evening hours when the place was relatively quiet. He was in the first cubicle, staring intently down at his comp console and its screen. Other officers were just as focused at their work, though the place had a more casual feel to it when Stearns wasn't around.

"How are things?"

" _Hmm_. Activity on the Klingon border, but nothing more than the usual posturing. Roms, too. Everybody's buzzing at higher intensity for some reason." Feehan shot him a glance and snapped, "It's probably your fault, Admiral, sir. They learned you're home and are certain you're going to instigate a war . . . one on two fronts, no less . . . any day now."

"Uh-huh," Jim replied to the obvious teasing.

Feehan laughed. "Well, maybe not all your fault. The Organian Hierarchy had something to say about it, too."

Kirk couldn't help but remember that moment in time with mixed feelings. He was primitive enough still to want to beat Kor to within an inch of his life, and yet, not to want a shooting war. "Get back to work, you slacker," Jim said with a smile, and turned away, the doors closing with a solid thunk behind him.

So, the bees were buzzing. Something was getting them aroused. Though the Romulans hadn't dealt with the Organians, at least as far as SSO knew, they'd been maintaining the fragile peace accords too. He sighed. Starfleet wasn't half as strong as the Federation liked to maintain. Too many ships with too many crews had been lost over the years, and budgetary funding was insufficient to build necessary replacements. He hoped to use his "celebrity" to bring a light onto dark places that needed attention, but subtly, without undermining Stearns' tactics.

He walked through Central, pondering ways and means of attaining the goals he had set for himself and Fleet. There was a slight Fall mist coming down as he exited the building, but he had only to cross the street before he was in his and Spock's apartment complex. The one bedroom suite was too small for them, but he was certain they'd receive better accommodations as soon as they became available. Both of them needed more space to work when they were at home, and Spock had already indicated a need for a larger meditation space. Actually, their rooms aboard _Enterprise_ fitted together were bigger than their efficiency apartment, but it would do for now.

He opened the door, immediately noticing the low lighting and relaxing music that pervaded the rooms. Either Spock was meditating—

"I am not," his Vulcan responded to his thought, rising from the desk situated in the bedroom. "I merely perceived your need to rest."

Jim tossed his case on the dining table and felt his own exhaustion now that it was brought to his attention. Spock was casually dressed in wrinkled white linen pants and shirt, appearing cool and at ease. The top had a V-neck, allowing the viewer to glimpse dark chest hair. The space felt warm to Jim, so it was no wonder Spock was comfortable.

A brief kiss from oh-so-hot lips and he was nestled into Spock's welcoming arms, relaxing into his easy strength. "You are weary, _th'y'la_ ," Spock murmured against his temple. "Are you hungry?"

"Ate at my desk, but I'm craving a shower," Jim said, slipping away and slowly removing clothes as he headed for the bathroom. He tossed his clothes into the building's laundry chute and stepped into the cubicle. One of the best things about being on Earth was water showers. He loved them and when he finally exited the bathroom twenty minutes later, he was satisfied to fall onto their bed, damp and cool. The room temperature had been reset to their mutual satisfaction, and Jim sighed, dragging his briefcase close, then opening it to begin the evening's work.

 

 

Spock was at the desk, grading a multitude of quizzes from his various classes, while he also dissected an astrophysics paper that a colleague has sent to him for review, and analyzed a new computer program that Wryaleth had forwarded, before frowning at the latest information from Scott.

"Jim, I have looked over the new skin temperature conversion ratios that Mr. Scott sent to us—"

Spock sat stock-still in his chair and wordlessly looked upon his bond-mate.

His half-naked, utterly inviting and sensually sublime, bond-mate.

Jim lay on the dark green of the blankets, on his side, his briefs the only thing shielding the rest of his body from view, bare feet seeming oddly fragile without boots. There were reports strewn across the bed, but the Admiral wasn't reading any of them. He was asleep.

 _How the man manages to look like an invitation to ravishment sound asleep, I cannot comprehend,_ Spock thought to himself fondly, laying aside the padd and dimming the lights to softness with a word. He picked up the data padds, the computer print-outs, the reports and flimsies, and laid them aside. Jim had been working hard since their return to duty. Given their recent difficulties on Vulcan, it was remarkable that McCoy had given the admiral medical clearance to even be on active duty. But Jim appeared to have 'bounced-back' as the doctor put it, and Spock could only agree. Kirk seemed to thrive on a diet of adversity and stress that would kill one less determined than he.

He had completed clearing the bed surface when Jim's eyes opened, and the gold-green orbs speared him with a look of love so intense, Spock felt his knees tremble in response.

"Come here," Kirk urged, his strong arms open and insistent. He moved to lie against the pillows, and opened his legs. "I need to feel you."

"I am with you every night," Spock reminded, as if Jim needed reminding.

"Please."

He said the word in the soft, appealing tone that could undermine Spock's stoical Vulcan side any time Kirk chose to use it. Spock had realized, and perhaps had always instinctually known, it was useless to resist. He was Kirk's and had been his since the first moment, had he but known it then. He knelt upon the bed, and then crawled into Jim's arms.

They hadn't touched one another without a clock ticking over their heads since before Jim's poisoning. Their kiss went deep, a hungry melding of lips and tongues, teeth clacking together in their haste. Jim's hands on his skin stroked gently over his chest, brushing against the nubs there, then gliding slowly down until his hand inched over Spock's waistband and below, to roughly fondle his engorging penis through his pants.

Spock closed his eyes in a vain attempt to hide what Jim's touch did to him. Kirk kissed his closed eyelids, allowing him this semblance of privacy.

He wanted to toss Jim down and do whatever he wished to him, but it was he who was turned to lie on the bedding, Jim leaning over him, warm breath against his lips proposing another kiss if he would just—

"Open your eyes, beloved," Jim urged, gifting him with light brushes of his lips until he did. "Let me see it. I want to see what you're feeling."

The intimacy made him squirm on the inside, and Jim soothed him with his mouth nuzzling his cheek, and caressing his temple before moving to his ear. "I've never needed anyone like I need you." His words were accompanied by a rush of possessive desire through the bond, and Spock felt himself harden even further. He pushed against Jim's hands, wanting more, and Jim rose above him, a mischievous smile twisting his lips. "Let me steer the ship this time."

Spock complied by lying quiescent against the blankets, but wishing Kirk would hurry. He felt much warmer than his normal body temperature and pulled off his shirts in a jumble of cloth, only to feel Jim at his feet, pulling off his boots, and every other scrap of fabric between them.

Kirk did not hesitate. He draped himself over his lover, skin brushing skin, hard organs caught between their bodies. It was torment, it was torture, not enough . . . and yet, too much.

"Easy, love, easy," Jim urged, nipping his throat, distracting him from the fire that burned below. "Let the fire have you. Give in to it. I'll catch you, you won't fall far."

Spock let out a cry of anguish, everything he had ever learned about negating emotions arguing with the need to complete himself with his mate. Sarek had been right; a Vulcan bond-mate would have been far easier. But then he would have never known this desire, this passion and outright need outside of the conflagration of _pon farr_. Mating with a human required more strength than any Vulcan who had not done it could understand. To retain one's self and love like this . . . it was every idea of Seyjan's contained in one sentence. Spock finally understood and reveled in it.

He smiled up at his lover, his best friend, and life mate. His hands stroked over Kirk's skin, admiring the strength in his body, the way he vibrated beneath his hands, controlling his own desire to ensure that Spock was comfortable. " _T'hy'la_ ," he breathed, using every iota of the emotions he was feeling to highlight the word. "My _t'hy'la_."

"Yes. Always, Spock. Forever," Kirk agreed, his eyes bright, face flushed. His love pounded through the lines connecting their souls together, welding them ever more tightly into one entity.

"Show me." His voice was hoarse with hunger and he barely recognized it as his own.

Jim's answering smile was sin made flesh. Kirk slid down his body, sucking his nipples along the way, while broad hands stroked against his hips, pinning him in place like a specimen on a plate. His teeth dented the soft flesh of his nub and pulled lightly, causing a flash-fire between his breast and his penis. He bit back a cry that was far more pleasure than pain, the throbbing of his nipple a whispered counterpoint to the pulse that shouted through his engorged organ. The other nipple received only a gentle laving, followed by an even more delightful sucking, causing Spock's hands to grip Jim's head to keep him there.

"You're mine, Spock, every inch, every ounce, every thought and every breath," Kirk asserted proudly, his body rosy and damp in the heat of their mutual desire.

"And you . . . are mine," the Vulcan growled, his hands locked in Jim's hair, holding him still for his lips to ravage that silky mouth. "I will prove it on your body, _t'hy'la_."

Jim trembled, but it was not in fear. "Oh, god, Spock, you make me weak. I can’t think when you talk like that."

Satisfied he had made his point, Spock began to touch Jim's magnificent body, stroking a strong pectoral muscle there, a bunched hip flexor here, before resting his fingers against his cheek. "Then don't, my love."

As if his words were some kind of goad, Jim slid down his body until his head was pillowed on Spock's thigh, succulent lips too close to his organ for Spock to lie quietly any longer. He feared this and he wanted it at the same time.

"Easy," Jim coaxed as though calming a horse he had yet to ride. "Easy."

Unable to remain still, Spock moaned softly and Kirk took pity on him. He moved until he was centered over the long length of his organ, gazing at it with an expression of lust that was pure and untainted with any other thoughts.

Spock cried out when Jim's tongue first stroked over him, his thighs bunching in a vain effort to bring that particular sensation back. Jim chuckled, his breath a subtle warning, and then Spock was engulfed by a moist heat, a silken tunnel that robbed him of air and comprehensible thought.

It was evident by his practiced manner, that Kirk had done this previously. Before any hint of jealousy could steal into his soul, he reminded himself that Jim was _his_ , by his own word and wish. He would never have another lover but Spock. His talents, in any direction, were wholly owned now by his Vulcan mate. That thought banished, he gave himself over to pleasure.

Jim's hand was busily pumping Spock, his lips locked onto his flesh, devouring him with a fervor that left Spock attempting to control his thrusts, but unable to hold back. The heated mouth changed rhythm on him, demanding more in this moment, and giving it back in the next, until Spock was unable to do anything but hold on to the blankets and yield.

Kirk seemed to know the moment that occurred. The fingers of his free hand stroked Spock's scrotum, teasing the wiry curls there before rolling the globes in their soft prison.

 _Mine,_ Jim insisted, his mental voice strong and confident in his ownership.

 _Yes,_ Spock agreed softly, aware that there had never been a day when this was not true. Even before they met, he had belonged only here, with Jim, by his side, in his heart and mind.

Orgasm struck like a wild electrical storm, locking his calves, thighs and back into an upward arch, pouring his seed deep into Jim's willing mouth, his hands vainly scrabbling for purchase in a wash of emotion that dragged him into the void.

 _Hold on to me, Spock,_ Kirk urged. Spock could feel the fire of release sweeping through Jim's body as well, its fire all the sweeter for being unexpected.

After what felt like too short a moment, the bliss receded, and Spock was left on Earth, his skin wet with sweat, heart pounding, his muscles trembling in the aftermath. Jim lay against his leg, appearing as fractured as Spock felt. He crawled his way up Spock's body, to collapse against his chest, panting, winded, and completely desirable. Spock kissed him, wanting to taste his own essence on Jim's lips.

Sated and tired, Kirk returned his kiss, and then curled against him, sleep overriding any need to speak. _Love you_ , was his last thought before Spock felt him slide into slumber.

_As I do thee, th'y'la._

Spock lowered the temperature another ten degrees and slowly compensated for the change. Though he was utterly enervated by their sexual congress, he had to bathe before he slept, if he would be able to sleep at all this evening. When he finally rose, he covered Jim with the sheet and blankets before rising to shuffle to the bathing cubicle on legs that shivered in reaction. He was forced to lean against the cubicle wall and then adjusted the temperature, hoping the ice-cold spray would aid his return to serenity . . .  if anything could after what he had just experienced with his mate.

It took quite some time before he was again able to reflect a tranquility he was far from feeling. Carefully, he dried himself, finding the routine movement of the cloth over his skin soothing, distracting him from the remarkable physical responses he had known once more with Jim. He dressed in soft sleep pants and shirt, needing their borrowed warmth now that he was once more centered and calm.

Settling into a comfortable seated position before his firepot, he considered which of many meditations would be useful for this situation, finally deciding on the _Kuat po Ten_ , a ritual focus designed to balance severe emotional disturbance. The multiple parts of the meditation took great concentration to achieve, and by the time it was complete, he was once again utterly composed. Hours had passed, but he required understanding more than he did sleep.

He had many questions. The healer, Seyjan, had not been very forthcoming when he had last brought this subject up with him. It was the ancient Vulcan's opinion that every Bonding was singular, and no information he held on the personal nature of bonds in general or specific would aide Spock in dealing with his own unique circumstance.

As advice it was woefully inadequate. As an example of IDIC, it was clear. Even if Spock were able to speak with his father on such a private matter, it was very likely that his experience with Amanda would be dissimilar. Just as no Vulcan before Sarek had Chosen a human, no male before Spock had Chosen a human male. There was no precedent to even begin to garner information on such a situation.

He turned to gaze on his mate, soundly sleeping, apparently unaware of the distress that Spock felt.

_Felt._

That was the issue, wasn't it? He was a Vulcan; his species' capability of controlling their emotions was legendary throughout the galaxy, to the point that many believed they didn't have any. In this regard, Spock believed himself as entirely, biologically, hereditarily, Vulcan. Yet his response to his mate was so devastating in its intensity that it blasted away decades of repression in moments, leaving him naked not just physically, but emotionally as well.

And it terrified him.

He loved Jim with every gentle and tender expression possible. But there was much more to Spock than those delicate emotions . . . and it was that side of his Vulcan heritage that worried him. In those few moments when he allowed himself to feel what his possessive desire for Kirk wrought between them, the Bond's silvery tendrils pulled taut, straining to find completion within his _th'y'la'_ s flesh, uncaring that such a thorough possession might unalterably change the dynamic of power between them and devastate their relationship.

James Kirk was a dominant man, a natural leader, easily taking control of every circumstance with a charming smile and alluring magnetism, instantaneously shifting his stance to that of intimidation or violence if those methods promised the needed result. The man's will was adamantine, as Spock well knew; he had too-often willingly made the decision to follow him to almost-certain death, only the fortunate intersection of numerous factors making the survival of the ship and crew possible.

"Spock?"

The quiet voice brought his head up, and their eyes met in the dimness of the room. He didn't respond.

"Did I disturb your meditation?"

"You did not."

Jim slipped from the bed and came to him. Some might have tried to appear sensual, shifting their walk, or the way they moved their shoulders. His th'y'la used no artifice, needed none. He was sexuality incarnate in the few steps from the bed to Spock's side, and the Vulcan sighed in appreciation. The low light added depth to the planes and textures of Jim's body, and Spock's mouth unaccountably watered.

"What's bothering you?" Jim asked as he crouched down to him, resting one hand on Spock's shoulder. "Did I ask for too much tonight?"

"It was not you," Spock replied with a careful sigh. "I am still becoming accustomed to . . . this."

Hazel eyes looked into him, their gaze far too perceptive, but Spock did not shy away from it. "This? _Sex?_ "

Spock tilted his head. "Is what we shared this evening merely sex to you?"

"You know it wasn't," Kirk rumbled, his grip becoming momentarily tighter before he was released. "I've never experienced anything like what we have together."

"Nor I."

Jim stood up from his uncomfortable position and beckoned Spock to rise as well. They made their way back to the rumpled bedding, Spock lying flat as he preferred and Kirk resting his head on his shoulder.

"I suppose I should have asked you about the other lovers you've had, but . . . I don't think I really wanted to know. Were there any men?"

"No," Spock replied, unaccountably uncomfortable with the question. It was unseemly to discuss it with one's bond-mate, and yet, if not with him, with whom?

"It that the problem?"

"There is no problem between us, Jim," Spock told him softly. "It is a matter of adaption on my part. I had not expected the ferocity of what passes between us." He paused, then continued, "You should sleep, _th'y'la_."

"Spock. Stop deflecting. I'm a grown man and can handle being without a few hours sleep. Our relationship . . . is important to me. I know there's a learning curve for both of us, but I don't want to make you unhappy because of my desire. Stop me next time if I'm pushing you too far."

Spock sighed. "I do not wish you to stop, Jim." He couldn't say more. "Please rest."

Kirk said nothing more, but Spock could feel his dissatisfaction as he fell to sleep again. His own thoughts would keep him awake until the morning.

The next day, while eating their morning meal, Kirk muttered what was uppermost in his thoughts. "SSO thinks the Klingons and Romulans are restive because I'm on Earth. Though Nolan was kidding about it, there was too much of an undercurrent of truth in his statement to just ignore it."

Spock analyzed that in less than a tenth of a second and sipped his juice. "Their positions?"

"Hovering around the borders, closer than usual."

"It is possible they are bolder because you are, in your words, "behind a desk." It is also likely they fear you and wish to present a position of security. Of the two, I believe the former most likely for the Romulan Command, while the latter is probable for the Klingon Empire. Each will test both you and the Federation by using a unique tactical posture, while allowing their stance to remain essentially the same with regard to the Organian Accords."

"So you think it's just positioning, not a prelude to attack."

"Indeed."

Jim sighed, lines of irritation bracketing his mouth. "I think so too. But I don't like it."

"Has Stearns responded to their tactics?"

"Not as far as I can tell. But then, I never see him, and I'm snowed under with paperwork. I couldn't tell you what he's thinking."

The Vulcan stared at him for a long moment, and Kirk flushed. "I don't have access to his side of the floor, not even SSO," he admitted.

Spock merely raised a brow in response. "It is unlike you to be so . . . dutiful."

Kirk chuckled at the choice of word. "I know; I'm just trying to stay on his good side. If he _has_ a good side."

"We will be attending his event this evening?"

"Yes. A dinner party, to meet the officers and their wives and husbands in a more relaxed atmosphere. It's formal dress."

Spock merely nodded, did not comment on the disparity between "relaxed" and "formal dress," as Kirk had expected, and deliberately glanced at the chrono.

"I know. Got to go." Jim stood up and quickly cleaned his plate and glass, before returning to stand by Spock's side. "I haven't forgotten what we discussed last night," he said softly, one hand coming to rest on Spock's shoulder. "Maybe we're going too fast."

"You will be late for duty," Spock replied.

Jim smiled and grasped his case. "All right. We'll talk later." _Don't think I'm letting this go, Spock._

_I do not, th'y'la. But there is nothing more to say._

_We'll see about that._

Spock sighed, but sent nothing further, and watched as Kirk left their home for his office, his thoughts less than their usual ordered calm.

 

 

McCoy crept into the lecture hall and settled his butt behind one of the desks. The comp padd embedded in the top lit up and began displaying the data that was currently being displayed on the large screen in the center of the hall, rotating so that all the students would be able to see the presentation.

This class of xenobiology students were currently studying Vulcan physiology, which brought a smile to McCoy's face. Most of what was being taught now was due to his own research on one particular Vulcan, and Bones doubted he would be all that delighted to be an example in a classroom. Still, for all his half-breed nature, there was no doubt that Spock was physiologically Vulcan and as such, could be considered a fine specimen for study. No matter how much he might protest such treatment.

The professor, a slight, fine-boned human male of middle years, was droning on in an insufferably superior tone that would put to sleep even the most fascinated of students. Professor Martin Lees, the syllabus had said, was one of only a handful of tenured professors who had not been present when McCoy had been introduced to the staff. McCoy listened for a while and realized that the professor was reading verbatim from the textbook.

 _Any idiot can read_ , McCoy thought to himself. _I want them thinking, damn it._ Part of him wanted to interrupt and take the teacher to task, while the other part wanted to just take over the class. Deciding on the lesser of two evils, McCoy stood up and began to walk down the steps leading to the center of the hall, noting the number of kids who were asleep, those with their heads in the texts, and the few who were vainly trying to listen to Lees.

"Professor Lees, if I might. . . ?" he interrupted when the man stopped to take a breath.

The professor looked over his old-fashioned glasses at him, frowning. "May I help you? I'm very sorry but you're interrupting my lecture—"

"Leonard McCoy," he said, stepping further forward and thrusting out a hand. Lees took it gingerly, and appeared utterly flustered. _Better with books than people,_ McCoy surmised. "Would you mind if I spoke with your class for a few minutes?"

It wasn't really a question, and Lees realized it almost immediately. He bowed slightly and stepped back, taking a seat with a much put-upon air.

Murmuring began, but it wasn't enough to wake the sleepyheads. McCoy stepped around and turned off the viewer, deliberately leaving the volume on high, so it sqwauked loudly, raising the heads of even the most sluggish and gaining their attention.

"Everybody awake now? Good," McCoy said with a smile and a hard clap of his hands. "Who can tell me something about Vulcans?"

The students looked perplexed. "What about them?" one asked.

"Well, since this is a xenobiology class . . . something about their physiology would be useful," McCoy snapped. _Good god._ He pointed at one student in the upper row. "Let's start with something simple. Cardiac chambers—how many are there?"

"Uh—"

"'Uh' is not an answer!" He pointed to a girl. "Number of hepatic lobes?"

"6!" she answered promptly.

"Good. Lungs?"

"4!" another called out.

"Right. Why?"

There was dead silence and then a shifting in chairs. McCoy looked around with his arms open. "The fact is interesting, but the why is more important in the field. Take a guess."

"I do not ask students to guess, Dr. McCoy," Lees interjected. "Facts are more vital."

Bones turned around and looked at him, barely able to hide the contempt he felt. "Facts are only the beginning of your studies," he growled. "It's what you can do with the facts that makes a difference out there," he reminded. "Why do Vulcans have four multiple-lobed lungs? What does it tell you about their natural environment?"

He looked around at them. "Let's try to look at this from another angle. You have a Vulcan crewman on a jungle planet with dense humidity and high oxygen content. The mission requires hiking to high elevations, and once you get there, the indigenous population begins to chase after you, to kill you by torture or whatnot. After a few kilometers the Vulcan falls to the ground gasping. His blood pressure is 90/70, respirations are eight, pulse 92. You hear gurgling in the lungs. What's the diagnosis?"

"Rapid-onset asthmatic pneumonia, caused by the high humidity and demand on lung function caused by running," a woman's voice called out from the left. "Vulcans are from a desert ecology, and do not have the adaptability to process either humid or highly oxygenated air content."

Bones turned to her with a wide smile. She was an inhabitant of the Pellucid star system, her ivory skin, jet-black hair, and enormous gray eyes indicative of a planet with low sunlight. "Excellent! And you would prescribe, doctor?"

She blinked for a few moments, obviously considering. "A fast-acting diuretic, an antibiotic, and a steroid, to help his body flush out the fluids. Removal from the terrain as soon as possible."

"Yes! You might have a patient peeing orange everywhere, but he wouldn't be drowning in his own fluids."

She nodded, flushing at his praise. Bones decided it was a good look on her, and turned away with an effort. "That's what I'm looking for, ladies and gents. You have to think and not just memorize. Why does a Vulcan have four multiple-lobed hearts? Because they have a hot, almost toxic, atmosphere in some places on their home planet and their lungs are designed to offset that. The ecology has mandated high lung function in the population, and due to a higher predator rate than most planets, Vulcan are adept runners and fighters."

"What gave them higher brain function?" another voice called out.

"A friend of mine would say that it is a natural response to a warrior society converted to logical and peaceful expression over centuries. I think they're just a bunch of overachievers."

The group chuckled.

The class broke up with a more positive frame of mind, and McCoy was pleased by their reaction to someone who demanded more from them than just answers on tests. With that in mind, he turned to Professor Lees and leaned against his desk, his arms crossed against his chest. "May I ask you, Professor, if you believe you are helping these students achieve the goals of the collegia?"

"Of course," the older man replied, turning away to load his discs into his case. His condescending tone immediately got under McCoy's skin.

"Even the ones who are asleep during your lectures?"

Lees sucked his teeth in disparagement, which didn't add to his looks any. "It is their choice to be here. And their choice to sleep. What does it have to do with me?"

"But you're just reading from the textbook!" McCoy snapped in astonishment. "It's no wonder they're asleep. If you're not excited about the material, how can you expect them to be?"

Lees blinked at him. "The class consists of what is in the book, nothing more. I don't know what it is you want, doctor."

McCoy prayed silently for patience. "I want . . . for you to give the textbook a practical spin, professor! To take what they learn and make it relevant to what they will be doing. That's what I want. And if I find you reading from the textbook again, I'll find another teacher for this course. Is that clear enough for you?"

Lees' expression held a mixture of affront and fear. "So you're the new broom, are you? I've been here for twenty-four years, doctor, and I can assure you I have been through many a change in administration."

McCoy attempted to smile, but he could tell that what rested on his face was more a grimace. "Twenty-four years is a long time; it's no wonder you're bored. Perhaps a change in your course load is required, Professor Lees. I'll get back to you on that." Furious at the man's attitude, McCoy stalked off. Thankfully, he hadn't found many of these hidebound dinosaurs, and he planned to pension off the ones still here, like Lees.

As he walked away, he once more caught sight of the woman from Pellucida, her lithe form drawing his eye to the point where he nearly slammed into a wall. Shaking his head, he got back on course and slipped into another classroom.

 

 

Jim Kirk liked to think he knew himself pretty well. But the strategist knew him better. As he sat behind his desk that morning, it started talking loudly enough that he had to pay attention.

What're you scared of, Jimmy-boy? Think Stearns will park you behind a desk for the rest of your natural life if you step over his line? Take your silver lady away from you? Call you names? Steal your Vulcan?

He hated the strategist in his head, but it had always been a vital part of his decision-making process. And it definitely had a point.

The old bastard has made his feelings plain, Jimmy. He doesn't want to see you on his turf, dumped a mountain of make-work on your shoulders, and pointedly did not include you in any strategic planning. He didn't set up any meetings for you with the movers and shakers either. It's his design to keep you out of his hair in the future by not giving you any power.

Jim growled softly, and rubbed his palm against his chin. Stearns had never been one of the admiralty in his corner, but this was pretty extreme behavior, even for him. Neely's position was apparently designed more to tell Kirk what he _couldn't_ do, rather than what he should—and that wasn't the point of an aide, at least not in Kirk's estimation.

The situation irked Kirk more and more each day.

_Is he threatened by me? Unnerved by my record? Worried I'll take an end-run around him?_

What do you think, dumbass? You're younger, arguably more famous, have had face to face encounters with the Organian Hierarchy, intimidated the Romulans, Klingons, Andorians and who all else, and to top it all off, Nogura wants you to take his job!

Jim frowned. _If I were him . . . and I knew that I was on my way out . . . I'd want to make sure that the guy following me knew what the hell he was doing._

So why isn't he?

 _Good question._ Jim stood up and pulled his uniform shirt to straightness and pushed his shoulders back. _I've never played by anyone else's game plan. Why start now?_

Neely stood to attention as Jim left his office. The young officer's face was questioning. "Can I get you anything, sir?"

"No, Lieutenant," Kirk replied with a smile as he passed his desk.

"Uh, sir . . . where are you going?"

"To SSO."

"But—"

Kirk ignored the officer's spluttering. Neely had been at pains to remind Kirk that SSO was off-limits to him, repeating the order so often that even Kirk had begun to believe it. Except no one could order the deputy director out of Ops. Not even Stearns.

He walked through the double doors of Strategic Ship Ops without hesitation, as though he belonged there. No alarms went off, no security officers started to rush towards him, no one gasped in shock. Most of the people didn't even notice him, they were so involved in their own work, which was a refreshing change from the gawkers he dealt with daily. Kirk took the time to really look around the space that he'd be spending a lot of time in if he had his way.

The large octagonally-shaped room had a more intense buzz than it had held the evening before. On every wall were placed rectangular screens, each one merging into the next, to give a complete galaxy-wide view. The lighter areas contained those areas of space that had been explored, while the much larger space was that which had not been explored yet. The analysts noted where every ship of the line was located in real-time, highlighted in colored ship-coding numbers. And as Kirk had guessed, there were far fewer ships patrolling the Neutral Zone, and even less than needed near the Klingon Corridor. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Stearns' office, frosted glass isolating the boss from his officers and analysts.

For his first real venture into SSO, he just wanted to make his presence subtly known. He wandered among the desks, noting mission parameters that were being transmitted to Fleet ships, and getting a more accurate picture of ships' status and location. An hour became two before Kirk was comfortable enough with what he had learned and returned to his office.

Neely was talking in an almost admonishing tone before Kirk had even completely entered his office. "I'm sorry, sir, but you do not have clearance—"

Lieutenant!" Kirk snapped and turned abruptly into the man's face. Neely stumbled back, surprised. "You do remember who the admiral here is, don't you? _I_ am. And I am also deputy director of Ops. I can't do the job if I don't know what's going on and I can't know what's going on without going into SSO!"

He sat down and turned to his comp. "I have a job to do, Mr. Neely, and you can either help me do it, or you can find another berth. Dis-missed!"

He felt badly for the young male a moment later, but the Venusian officer had a decision to make: he could either be on Kirk's team, or not. No one else could make it for him. Smacking his hands together, he flexed his fingers and got ready to change the parameters on his mail account.

By the end of the day, Kirk had managed to have a live SSO feed piped in to his comp, as well as any changes in ship mission status and parameters within Fleet. No one within administration found his requests odd, or had required Stearns' permission to act. As Kirk requested to be placed into the command mail system, he began to receive information regarding flight meetings and strategy sessions, which apparently he was supposed to have received all along.

_Bastard._

Apparently, Stearns had intended for Kirk to inadvertently opt out of anything important by simply being unaware he'd been included. Neely was detailed to keep the headstrong new admiral in line and Kirk was intended to be an obedient lapdog, do his paperwork and stay in his place.

_Not likely._

"Enough games," he grumbled and with a grin, rose to head home, needing to change clothes before going to the admiral's dinner party. He was looking forward to meeting the old rascal again, now that he'd made his own feint in what he could foresee would be a long and difficult chess game versus a master strategist.

 


	3. Chapter 3

"I'm going to ask you again if you really want to do this."

Spock halted his forward momentum. "I do not understand. To what are you referring?"

Kirk sighed and threw his arms up in apparent frustration. "This dinner! I hadn't thought about it before, but the minute we show up at Stearns' dinner party, then all the rumors will be proven true."

"The rumors?"

"About us. Our Bonding."

Spock was nonplussed. "And this distresses you?"

Jim looked at him, his expression one of bafflement, before sliding into uncertainty and then, humor. His green-gold eyes sparkled and he threw his chest out. "No. I'm proud . . . of us. Of you." His tone lowered. "But I also know how you are about your privacy. And if we attend Fleet events together, then privacy regarding our relationship will be in short supply."

Spock's gaze was lost in the distance for a long moment as he considered the ramifications, as though he had not done so many times already. He palmed open the apartment door lock again. "I prefer to be with you. I sense your concern about this evening. And true privacy can only be broken from within."

Kirk shook his head, bemused. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

"I will not."

Kirk chuckled and they made their way down to the street level.

As Spock expected, there was a Fleet aircar waiting to take them to the admiral's private residence outside of the city proper in Pleasanton, an affluent suburb community in Alameida County.

"Lieutenant," Jim greeted softly as his aide opened the rear door of the spotless 'car.

"Admiral Kirk, Captain Spock. Good evening, sirs."

Jim looked up at his aide and hesitated, openly assessing the officer. "You've made your decision, Mr. Neely?"

"As you see, sir." There was a proud gleam in the young man's violet gaze and he stood straight as he held the door open.

Kirk nodded thoughtfully and entered the car, exuding a subtle sense of satisfaction. "How long will it take us to arrive, Neely?"

"Approximately thirty minutes, sir. You will arrive within ten minutes of the invitation time, which is considered fashionably late, as will a number of the other senior officers."

"Belay that, Mister," Jim ordered with a snap. "On time or not at all, understood?"

"But, sir, no one else—"

Jim leaned forward in the seat to gain his aide's attention. In brisk tones he advised, "I'm a Star Fleet officer of the line, Nils. Ten minutes late can mean the difference between victory and the deaths of hundreds of crewmen. I won't be late."

The young male was quiet, his long head hanging down, and Spock had a moment's compassion for him. On _Enterprise_ , promptness had been a silent prerequisite to even be considered for promotion. It was a given in a senior duty station.

The Venusian sighed softly, but Spock heard it. "I hope you will not see me as remiss in my duty, sir, but I am at a loss as to how best to guide you. I have never met a flag-rank officer like you, sir."

Jim sat back, and waved a hand to get the aide driving. The aircar moved smoothly into the heavy evening traffic. "And how is that?"

"You do not appear in the least political. You are not alarmed by irritating your superiors. As far as I have been able to ascertain, you act as you see fit, guided only by your personal sense of duty. You don't bully your juniors, belittle your colleagues, or criticize your superiors. I fear that I do not understand your principles."

Spock raised a brow. He had seen such undercutting behavior in Fleet, but it never ceased to disappoint him.

Kirk shook his head, frowning. "I have better things to do, Neely, than to play games. I want you to keep your ears and eyes open tonight. Stearns may try to pump you for information, but you can't give him what you don't have."

"Yes, sir. I certainly don't have any."

Kirk smothered a chuckle at the young officer's discomfiture.

Along the way, Jim quietly told Spock what he believed Admiral Stearns had attempted to do to diminish Kirk in other officers' eyes. Spock was less surprised by his actions than by Jim's initial passivity, and was relieved that Kirk had made the decision to take control of his destiny once more. If the administration believed Jim could be easily manipulated, then the return to _Enterprise_ would not be as straightforward as both of them wished. While Kirk had never been a pawn on a chessboard of this magnitude before, his core strategy did not change. It had not taken long for Kirk to see through the ruse. In truth, by telling him what he could not do, it had obviously irked him sufficiently that he chose to ignore whatever boundaries had been set before him.

McCoy would undoubtedly have quoted some proverb about "bulls" and "red flags," but Spock chose not to quote it, since he didn't quite understand why an animal that was colorblind would care about any particular shade of cloth.

Neely pulled up to Admiral Stearns' residence with three minutes to spare, sufficient time for them to climb the steps and arrive exactly on time.

Spock took a moment to gaze at the Mexican-style villa, which was set over three acres of gently climbing land. The landscaping had been perfectly sculpted to fit with the design of the single-story house. It complemented his own aesthetic taste, and he paused momentarily to admire the stone and stucco walls, the musically cascading water pools, the expansive doorways, window spaces, and open meeting areas, including an exterior dining room whose softly candle-lit settings gave one access to a relaxed atmosphere, which immediately soothed him. He realized that the house must have had an environmental-containment unit over it, a bubble that would maintain the proper temperature and oxygenation, light, and humidity levels that the occupants required, but which would be invisible. No doubt it was a very expensive "perk."

Ushered into the dining room by a female attendant, Spock stood quietly by Jim's side as Admiral Stearns and his wife came up to them. The admiral was as Spock remembered: a short, paunchy human male of 85 years, his black hair liberally sprinkled with white strands, deep-set dark eyes carrying an intensity that did not change even when he smiled or laughed. His wife, Bet, was a much-younger human female with a cheerful energy and a charm that reminded Spock of his mate. Her hair was colored an improbable blonde, but her smile and warmth were natural enough.

After the introductions were made, she took his arm and began to move away. Short of being rude, there was little he could do to remain by Jim's side.

"Captain Laska would like to meet you, Spock. She's an engineer, and on her off hours, loves to tinker with aircars. She was hoping you would look over some of her modifications. . . ."

With a glance to his mate, Spock let himself be taken away. He thought it likely that Mrs. Stearns had been advised by her husband to separate them. Jim appeared relaxed as he accepted a drink from a circling waiter, but inside he was coiled and taut, prepared for an attack.

_Jim?_

_I'll be fine. Go talk engineering with Shri. She's a friend, though one I haven't seen in a few years. Mingle. This bunch doesn't get to speak with Vulcans all that often._

Spock stifled a mental groan. Jim knew of his dislike of being on display.

 _I warned you, didn't I?_ His tone had a snap to it.

_You did. And I would still prefer to be with you. I will do as you wish._

_Good. Go make nice with the big boys while I make a pest of myself with my boss._

Dissatisfied with the situation, Spock kept Jim and Stearns in his line of sight, waiting and watching for any signs of verbal hostility as they talked, all the while listening to Captain Laska enthuse about her latest modifications to the most recent Fleet aircar.

"You know, if I put a basket of Hyrkranian apples on my head and danced, they'd turn blue."

"I beg your pardon?" Spock asked, doubting that any Falosian female would look at all attractive with blue apples on the top of her bright green head.

She smiled at him and laughed, which in her species came out as something of a bark. She was approximately a meter and a half tall and proportionally shaped, though the females of Falos had eight breasts to feed their multiple young. Her bright green skin was an evolutionary adaptation as were the black lips and eyes. Black hair-like strands floated around her face, stroking here and there, which Spock noted with interest. Falosians were one of the only species with conscious control of their scalp hair, using densely woven strands like extra appendages. McCoy had once noted that they were an ideal tool for an observer to note the individual's frame of mind. Captain Laska was certainly relaxed, if her hair could be believed.

"I'm sorry, Spock, but you were so obviously not concentrating on me I thought you weren't listening at all."

Spock nodded, caught. "My apologies, Captain."

"It's Shri, please," she said, with an approximation of a smile. "And no need to apologize. The 'Net has been abuzz regarding your relationship with Jim; I can certainly understand your being concerned at dropping him in the middle of this piranha tank." She raised her glass to her lips and drank the fruity concoction down in one gulp, fruit and all.

Admiring her esophageal dexterity, and aware he was being somewhat overprotective and entirely foolish, Spock straightened and turned his attention entirely on her. "You had mentioned that you believed the reason the aircar's turning radius was not entirely satisfactory was a design flaw. I believe it may be due to your insistence upon using trivaluminum as an element in the design...."

 

 

As the admiral smiled and chatted with guests who continued to arrive, Jim stayed by his side, forcing the older man to make introductions where needed. Kirk knew all of Stearns' officers, having met with them, but was glad to encounter the other flag-rank officers attending this evening and even more pleased that Stearns was forced to act as a gracious host.

Finally, there was a lull in newly arriving guests. The admiral turned to him after snatching another drink from a passing server. "You don't take orders very well, do you, Kirk?" Stearns grumbled, his voice sharp though his expression was locked in a smile. Anyone looking at them would not see anything unusual, just two men having a pleasant conversation.

Jim grinned back. "Actually, sir, I do. Oddly enough, I haven't received any since returning to duty. And given that you've refused to meet with me, what—four?—times now, I believed a little unrestrained reconnoitering was in order."

"Is that what that was, wandering through SSO like you owned the place?"

Kirk chuckled, refusing to take offense. "I'm your deputy, sir. Familiarity with Ops is necessary if I'm to be at all useful to you."

"You're making the supposition that I think you can be useful."

Jim sipped his champagne, and wondered why people in luxurious homes always bought the cheap stuff. "I'm not vain, sir, but I know my worth. As do you."

The dark eyes looked him full on, silently taking his measure. "We'll see, Kirk. We'll see. So tell me: what's your initial assessment? I assume you have one."

Kirk shifted his stance, leaning slightly forward, his body language intended to redirect any casual interruption. "We're woefully undermanned for the mission we've been tasked with. Protecting all Federation space, keeping a defensive posture against the Romulans and Klingons, as well as continuing explorations is a heavy burden for eight starships, ten heavy cruisers and twenty-three light cruisers. We're asking for trouble if we do not raise our ship production and crew training within the next five-year plan. I’d like to see fifteen heavy cruisers just for defense, forty light cruisers for monitoring, and bring the starships up to ten for exploration." He gave a light chuckle and took a moment to look around the room. "Of course, we're not likely to get that kind of funding. But if we ask for more and get less, it's still better than the initial budget that the Federation is trying to drop on us."

"Budget?" Stearns commented, obviously surprised. "You managed to get budget data too? Since this morning?"

"I haven't read it all, but was able to take in enough to get the gist. And the production schedules. And re-fits, crew manifests, pro-rated dilithium consumption figures, dilithium production rates, Academy graduation proposals—"

The admiral cleared his throat. "Think you're ready to take over my job already?"

The appalled expression on Kirk's face must have been sufficient to project his sincerity for Stearns actually laughed. "I thought not."

"You could not possibly know how much I-don't-want-your-job, admiral."

Stearns grunted. "Quite a few men have stood where you are now, Kirk, and changed their minds once they realized the power involved."

"Power is addictive, I don't deny it."

"And you're an ambitious man."

He abruptly remembered Apollo and Sargon, and knew he didn't have that kind of aspiration in him. Jim shook his head. "Not that ambitious, sir. I've found my niche, and I'll be quite content to take my lady back where she belongs when she's ready."

"So you say."

"Yes, sir, I do. Besides, Spock and Leonard McCoy would kick my butt from here to Colony Delta if I even considered becoming land-locked. And they'd be right." He lowered his voice. "I don’t belong behind a desk. My place is out there," he said wistfully, looking out into the twilight sky.

The old bear actually grasped his elbow. "You miss it?"

Jim shook off the sudden rush of melancholy. "I haven't had time to miss anything, really," Jim told him. "I've been snowed under by an avalanche of," he caught Stearns eye, and changed what he'd been about to say, emphasizing the words, "important work."

Though the admiral smiled, his teeth showed in a grimace as he growled out, "You remember that. Every detail is vital. Not so long ago, you were the one yelling and stomping about staff allocations, promotions and mission parameters, giving me one hell of a headache. Oh, yes, you solved problems all right, when you didn't create bigger ones." The dark gaze flattened out. "So you're the golden boy now," he said, tapping a finger into Jim's chest. "But I'll be watching, Kirk. And I don't give a good goddamn who your rabbi is, if you step one foot wrong in my domain, I'll chop it off and feed it to you. You've been shoved down my throat, some maverick with little idea of real duty, but that's okay. I'm a big boy; that's why I'm in the center chair. But I don't have to like it and I don't have to make it easy for you. Is that clear?"

 _So much for a pleasant conversation._ "Crystal, sir."

Stearns strode off to clap hands with some of his cronies. Jim put down his drink and wandered off to one of the long pools to the right of the dining room. He sighed and lightly shifted his back, trying to relax the tension in his shoulders. They hadn't even had dinner yet and he'd already been put in his place. By an expert.

"Do you know how many men like you he has destroyed in the past ten years, Kirk?" a voice quietly asked from the shadows near the house.

An extremely tall humanoid woman stepped forth, clad in a black gown, her long silver hair braided tightly and falling over her shoulder to her waist. A silver cord closed the garment tightly around her while sandals wrapped her feet. "How many he has broken and tossed away like inadequate toys?"

Jim stood his ground as she came closer, her flowing, muscular walk instantly bringing to mind the Norse myths of the Valkyries, the carriers of the slain to Valhalla. Her navy blue gaze struck him hard, locking him to stillness in the dim light from the house, its voices seeming very far away. He could easily imagine her with a length of steel in her hand, the muscles that couldn't be entirely hidden by the folds of the cloth flexing lightly as she moved.

"Over a dozen." She said, answering her own question. "And each, with cause." She moved around him, one hand barely brushing against his uniform sleeve, but still he felt it. "Some were too weak, too easily led, others . . . without the needed wisdom. He has no heir apparent, and that weighs upon him greatly. For without Star Fleet," she said the words as though they were unfamiliar to her, "the Federation cannot stand."

Jim barely breathed. The strength of her will was formidable, so much so that it felt oppressive even in the open air of the garden. He couldn't speak and the sheer presence of her was impossible to move against.

"He hopes that you will be the one, though it has been a long time since he has truly had hope." She looked upwards at the stars couched in the velvety blackness of the night sky. "There is much to appreciate in his steadfast dedication, his devotion to an ideal, flawed though it may be at times." She shrugged and stepped away from him. "I cannot foresee with certainty whether you will be whom he seeks, but I believe it to be so."

"Who are you?" he finally managed to ask from a throat dry as dust.

She didn't reply with anything other than a gentle smile.

"Jim?"

Spock's voice broke the moment. The oppressive sensation winked out a second later. Kirk looked wildly around, but the woman was gone as if she had never existed. He trembled, cold without any understanding why.

"Did you see her?" he asked.

"Her?" the Vulcan asked. "I saw no one but you."

"I came out. . . ." He pointed to the corner. "She was just standing there. And then she disappeared."

Spock easily picked the image from his thoughts. _You did see her, th'y'la. And she appeared to hold you using a form of telekinesis._

He grasped Jim's arm, lending strength and solidarity to his reeling world. Kirk didn't understand why he felt so unnerved.

_You did not fear her, even though she felt so powerful to you._

_No,_ Kirk realized _. I wasn't afraid. More . . . stunned than anything. There was something compelling about her and almost sad._

Noise from the group filtered through the air to them. _Come. The guests are being seated for the meal, and you are missed. We can discuss this later._

Kirk shrugged slightly and followed his Vulcan, puzzled and alarmed now that the experience was over. He glanced over all the guests, but the mystery woman was nowhere in sight.

He managed to play the proper role for the rest of the evening, but was relieved when Neely dropped them back at the residence.

_Spock, I still don't understand what happened. Who was she? Why did she seem familiar to me?_

The Vulcan sent him a dark, troubled glance. _Familiar? Allow me to address the puzzle this evening. There is something about her appearance that I also believe I have seen before...._

Jim removed his dress uniform and fell back onto their bed. He was tired, but so much had happened today that he needed to put it into perspective, or he'd never get to sleep. Spock had gone straight to the computer and was peering intently at the screen, his focus entirely taken up with the question of the anonymous woman.

It wasn't the first time that his immediate superior didn't care for his personal style. And it certainly hadn't been the first bawling out he'd received either. So he tossed the episode away as having little or no importance. Stearns wasn't going to make this posting easy, _hmm_? That was no surprise. The admiral had never hesitated to put the _Enterprise_ and her crew in the firing line when he needed to; there wouldn't be any cheap seats on this ride either, and Jim would have to produce or his entire career could hit the skids. He needed to check out the man's previous deputies. . . .

Sleep stole his next thought before he could even begin to formulate it.

 

 

McCoy liked early mornings on Earth. Now that fall was approaching with all the stealthiness of a Klingon, the air was crisp with the scent of apples and leaves, but this morning it was all washed away by a constant stream of heavy rain. He tossed on a jacket before leaving his efficiency apartment and began the long walk up to the Fleet main hospital. He had a consultation scheduled with a Dr. O-Dia on the third level in xenopediatrics and he reviewed the case notes in his head.

A young Arcturan boy of approximately nine Standard years had been brought down with a case of a wide-spreading fungus. His temperature, for an Arcturan, was elevated, which meant that extra cooling units had been requisitioned in an attempt to keep the youngster from combusting prematurely.

He slipped through the quiet halls, hearing the murmuring of staff and patients as the day began, the swish of environmental control doors, hisses of hyposprays, smelling the never-very-appetizing scent of hospital food and the omnipresent scent of antiseptics. As he headed to the Peds ward, he couldn't help smiling. He _loved_ being a doctor. It was as much a part of him as were, well, his bones. The feel and smells of hospitals were as welcome as the smile of an old friend; he'd never felt the fear and awe that others knew here, the terror of the unknown that lurked in lab tests and physical evaluations. He'd been drawn in the very first time his father had brought him to see his first patient of the day and that fascination with medicine hadn't left him since.

Were there bad days? Of course, just as in any other field. Patients died, and he was left with a clock-spring tension coiled within his gut until he could figure out why they had, and how to prevent it from happening again to someone else. There was nothing better than that—nothing could beat knowing you had helped someone when they needed you to be on your toes, pushing you to the utmost of your abilities. And every time he was called in, Leonard McCoy took that love and put it to the test. It was bred into him, bonded to his soul, and without it he would wither and die. It was the best of him.

Oh, he'd had other loves. His daughter, Joanna, was proof of that, along with a string of failed affairs that followed him around like a bag of rocks, clunking and making noise every so often. He'd tripped on a few of those rocks now and then, women he'd known years ago suddenly making a re-appearance in his life. And while they were pleased to see him, there was a wistful acknowledgement that they could never be his first love. That place in his heart, like in Jim's, was taken up by an idol of test tubes and scientific analyses, rather than struts and nacelles. He thought it was why he understood Kirk so well sometimes. Their passions were nothing if not predictable.

The data padd at the nursing station held Savin Tritt's medical notes, and Bones reviewed recent treatment with eyes blurry with fatigue. He rubbed them and re-focused as he headed toward the boy's room in Isolation. It was a bad habit he had, walking and reading at the same time, and as he bumped into a warm body, he was reminded of it.

Wide gray eyes stared up at him with amusement. "I think you need another set of eyes, Doctor McCoy."

He chuckled. It was the woman from Pellucida and if he hesitated to step back from her, it was only from a suddenly roaring libido's desire never to leave her side; in fact, he wanted to become intimately involved with her smile. "Well, hello again," he murmured. "Enjoying Professor Lees?"

"No, not really," she admitted with a sparkle in her eyes and a light blush. "You're here to see my patient?"

"Young Mr. Tritt?"

"The same."

"Then I am." The smile slid away from them both at the gravity of the boy's situation. "You haven't been able to isolate the causative organism?"

"Oh, I have," she replied earnestly, pointing to the specific notation. "It's a benzene-derivative fungus, which has attached itself to his deeper dermis and now pushed through the upper layer."

"Hmm. Let's go take a look."

"I've placed him in full isolation, as per protocol," she said nervously, preceding him into the outer containment unit. McCoy nodded, head still buried in the notes. He absently climbed into level-six biohazard gear and plugged the re-breather into his nose. The unit was a fully enclosed suit contained in cloth the width of a normal scrub shirt with a headpiece that reminded him of the ancient Frankenstein monster vids, two prongs reaching out from his neck to contact the plaz-shield and keep it away from his eyes.

"How long has he been sedated?"

"Since he began screaming at three this morning. The fungus had reached his face by then and the dermal sensitivity was excruciating."

He looked down at the youngster, always surprised at how oversized Arcturans were. This boy was huge, at least two meters tall with a width comparable to that of the heavier Ja-sumo wrestlers. He was a bright blue at the extremities, with a hotter core temperature tinting his skin to the color of pale blue ice toward his chest and belly. The fungus was easy to palpate, an eruption of irregular, sharp hives, worst at his feet and continuing up his torso. He touched the boy's skin and felt the heat coming off of him even through the suit; the coolers were doing their best to keep the room frigid enough to turn an Ardasian tundra cat into a kitty-sicle, but it was having no noticeable effect on Mr. Tritt.

"You've tried all the regular anti-fungals?"

"Every one. His chemistry is so severely altered that most just made him more ill."

"What's his current temp?"

O-Dia looked at the reading closest to her elbow at the head of the bed. "116 degrees and climbing every hour. He's prepubescent; if he combusts before puberty, it will kill him."

McCoy frowned. Arcturans rarely became ill. Once they matured, they were covered in flames most of the time and that had the neat trick of keeping all but the hardiest bugs at bay. However, in childhood, they could be a real pain to treat. And O-Dia was right. If the kid kept his temp climbing like this, he'd combust and be reduced to a pile of ash in minutes.

"You did a biopsy?"

"Yes. But once removed from contact with him, the fungus retreated and died within hours."

"Obviously likes the heat." He sighed. "All right. I'd rather he had to spend a year regenerating his skin than let him burn like toast. Start a liqu-Nit treatment," he began and considered the dosage. "What's his dermal surface measurement?"

She calculated it swiftly in her head. "Eight meters."

He whistled. "That's a big boy, all right. Start with twenty grams/meter at a distance of eighteen centimeters. And send another sample to my lab. I want to take a look at this monster."

"Yes, doctor."

McCoy winced as he realized he'd stepped on her metaphorical toes. "Do you concur?" _Now that I've put my foot in my mouth and given orders for your patient? McCoy, you are an unmitigated ass some days._

She smiled and gestured for them to leave isolation. Once outside of containment, he murmured an apology.

"There's no need, Dr. McCoy." She turned once more to look at the door that led into the boy's room. "I needed a second opinion. I . . . I hesitated to take such a drastic step, but I didn't see any other way to save him."

His back straightened. It always worried him when doctors hesitated on treatment plans, especially in infectious diseases, but she was young and would learn. "We don't know if this will do it either, O-Dia. It'll be a tough road; he could develop secondary infections. Who knows what will happen to his combustion factor? We may not be doing him any favors. Arcturans are not noticeably warm and fuzzy about those who are different. Their whole society is based on their being, er—" There really wasn't a politically correct way to call someone a match.

O-Dia didn't seem to notice. "I know. I'm uncertain whether his larval matriarch will even come back to see him. She was so disappointed that he became ill, you could see it in her eyes."

"They see any difference from the norm as being weak." McCoy shook his head; there was nothing he could do about a planet's ideology. "All we can do is try, O-Dia. She did leave consent with you, didn't she?"

"Yes, which is why I think she won't return. I got the feeling she was washing her hands of him, poor kid."

McCoy co-signed O-Dia's treatment plan, so that in the event the boy died, they would both be called to the mortality and morbidity discussion. Not one would argue that it was a desperate remedy, but there was very little choice.

"Let me know how he does," McCoy requested, as he completed his notes on the padd. "I'll stop by later, but call me if you're worried."

She blushed again. "Can I just . . . call you?"

Her smile really was quite charming.

"I'd like that."

McCoy decided he enjoyed rainy days best.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim Kirk had never been one of those people who liked to laze in bed. There were far more interesting things he could be doing than staring at his eyelids. But Spock often had him beat in that department. It didn't appear that the Vulcan had slept last night; his side of their best was still neat. And looking over to the quiet computer corner, he could see him still staring at the computer screen, in the same position he'd been in the previous night. He hadn't even changed out of his dress uniform.

"What are you doing?" Jim asked, scratching his head as he stood up and moved towards the desk, then reversed course, picked up his robe, and headed for the kitchenette and coffee.

"I found the woman you saw last evening," Spock told him, his voice tight with irritation.

"Oh? Who is she? Or rather, _what_ is she?"

Jim ambled back to Spock, resting one hand on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. He loved touching the man, always had. His gaze was caught by the holo on the computer screen. "That's her!"

"Indeed." Spock looked up at him, not appearing even slightly the worse for wear for being awake for a day. "Alicia Stearns, the admiral's grandmother. Her obituary states she died forty-two years ago."

Jim blinked. "She looked good for a ghost _._ "

The glance Spock gave him was equal parts irritation and humor. "I do not believe in ghosts."

"So what would you call her, a spectral emanation?" he asked, gesturing with his coffee cup. "A spiritual manifestation? A phantom? Spirit, ghoul, banshee, or poltergeist?"

A dark eyebrow winged upward. "I cannot tell you what it was, but I can tell you that Mrs. Stearns was never known to have any psychokinetic abilities. And from your memories, she was dressed exactly as you see in this holo, a match to one that is hanging within the Stearns home."

Kirk stared at him. "Spock, are you saying Stearns is haunted by his grandmother? Who developed powers on the other side?"

The Vulcan grunted in disapproval. "Whoever, or whatever, this creature was, it held you captive. I cannot see the humor in the situation."

"That's because you get grumpy when you don't get your cuddle time," Jim reminded, brushing a gentle hand over Spock's shining hair.

"You refuse to take this seriously," he complained softly, turning towards Kirk. "What if she re-appears?"

"I'll worry about it then. For all I know, someone spiked my champagne with a hallucinogen—"

"You did see her—"

Jim shut him up with a kiss. "She wasn't trying to hurt me. It was more of a warning, kind of, but convoluted and altogether too mystical for my taste." He sighed. "Though, I could swear that I've met her before. She's familiar somehow."

"Did you meet Mrs. Stearns at an event, perhaps?"

"No, no, nothing like that. I mean, she didn't _look_ familiar. She _felt_ familiar."

"I do not understand."

"Neither do I," Jim admitted. "But until she shows up again, there isn't anything we can do about it." He shrugged. "Do you have time for a session at the gym before you go to the collegium? I need to shake some of these cobwebs out of my head."

"I, too, would welcome exercise," Spock agreed. "Allow me to change clothing."

Jim tossed on pants and a light shirt, glancing at the sky, teeming down rain on the passers-by below.

Spock came up to him with a rain jacket in his hand. "Your conversation with Admiral Stearns disturbed you last evening."

It was a statement, not a question, his Vulcan's not-so-subtle way to get him to open up. Kirk frowned. "He thinks I'm an irresponsible, glorified, pretty-boy who got lucky."

"Could this be another test?"

Kirk switched to thought without losing a step as they left their apartment. _Possibly. Probably. I need to prove myself, that's all._

Spock's displeasure was real enough. _I would think that your career and accomplishments would be sufficient proof for anyone._

_That's just it. It's not my record he cares about. In some ways, I'm not sure he believes it's true, even though he's read the reports. It's what he sees now that will make or break me._

_Hmm. He is hostile?_

Kirk gave a bark of a chuckle that had nothing to do with humor and everything to do with emphasis. _Hostile? He makes Kor look like a pet parakeet. But then, if I had his job, I'd be a real bastard myself. It's not easy._

_Which is why you are there. To take part of the responsibilities onto yourself._

While Kirk loved a challenge, he couldn't see his job right now to be anything more than a welterweight getting in the ring with an aging, but still prime, heavyweight prizefighter. There would be a lot of slugging, ducking and weaving going on, and he'd hit the ropes a few times before he learned the other man's rhythms. How he fared depended on just how hard Stearns hit him. Did he want him out? Or was it just as Spock suspected, a test?

He blew out a breath as they entered the Academy gymnasium. There was no way out but through. And if these workouts with Spock did nothing else, they reminded Kirk that he, like the ship he loved, was made of tough stuff.

Knowing the angle of his thoughts, Spock was not gentle with him that morning. They thrashed and fought, slippery hands and legs tossing slim bodies to mats, techniques designed to cripple or kill an enemy used . . . just to the breaking point and then released. By the time it was over, Jim was sitting on his ass on the edge of the mat, breath sawing in and out of his lungs, chest heaving, skin awash with sweat and glowing with a mixture of new bruises, handprints, and general exertion.

Spock stood a few feet off, bent over, his hands on his knees, breathing slowly to throw off more CO2 from the oxygen rich atmosphere of Earth. He was a deeper green color than normal and bore his own set of emerald bruises. As he walked over on not quite steady feet, Jim couldn't help but feel a wash of pride that this amazing man was his. He smiled and winced; Spock had only slapped him and his neck felt like it wanted to leave the vicinity of his shoulders.

 _I am yours._ Spock repeated his thoughts and sat next to him, not touching, but. . . .

They were learning to ignore the students and Academy personnel who sometimes stopped their own exercise to watch them.

_Thanks for the workout. I needed that._

_Yes. And though I do not care for the need of such violent techniques, it is best if we remain adept._ He stood up. _We do not have time to linger here._

Jim looked at the hand that was reaching out to him, and took it, allowing Spock to easily lift him to his feet. Once he was there, he wavered, but he was on his feet. They made their way back to the apartment silently and crowded into the shower together, barely managing to get clean through all the jostling. Jim pinched Spock every so often. The Vulcan acted offended, but it was just that, an act.

Energized, Kirk left the apartment ready for his day, and whatever it threw at him.

 

 

Spock retreated to his office that afternoon after teaching his last class, and prepared himself for any students to avail themselves of his office hours. He hadn't received any yet, but he told himself that it was most likely due to the initial acclimatization of the students for the semester.

He left his office door open and began reviewing his lesson plans and the work that students had already prepared on the assignment webpage. As was expected, a few students were ahead of the curve, some on it, and the rest at varying degrees of below average in all of his classes. With a frown he noted five individuals who consistently sat in the back of the hall while he taught in both his math and physics courses. They were at the bottom of the curve, and he was uncertain whether it was due to lack of acumen or indolent attitudes, though it was likely the latter.

A young human male appeared in the corner of his vision. He was tall and gangly, reminding Spock forcefully of Jim's nephew, Peter, but without his exuberant confidence and smiling countenance. His hair was a dark mahogany brown covering a sharply angular face. His gaze darted about, quickly taking in Spock's office. Once the shifting eyes caught his own, he crushed a smile, immediately reminded of McCoy. The cadet's eyes were the deepest sapphire he had ever seen, neatly hidden behind long lashes and hair cut to his high cheekbones. Never immune to beauty in any form, Spock watched and appreciated, waiting for the young man to speak.

"I'm . . . Jake, er . . . Jacob Aster. I'm in a couple of your classes, sir."

Spock gestured for him to take a seat, carefully taking in the timid aura and sharp reflexes. "Yes. Your work is exemplary."

A light flush caressed his face and a half-smile flew across his lips. "I like math. Inter-spatial calculus is my favorite, and I thought your astrophysical anomalies course would be interesting. And it is," he blurted out.

"The matrices of warp speed are interesting to you?" Spock asked. It was unusual to find a human student willing to harness the mental faculties required to analyze the number-heavy equations needed.

"Yeah. I mean, yes, sir. I wrote a paper for _Interspatial Dynamics_ and that brought me here, to the Academy."

Spock nodded. "I wonder if I have read it?" he asked no one in particular and turned to his computer, requesting all relevant papers under the cadet's name. Finding the one Aster had spoken of, Spock skimmed it, noting the fresh thinking underlying the text, a perception of space-time diverging from the common wave-analysis patterns. It took him only minutes and then he looked up.

"You have a novel perspective, Mr. Aster."

The young man grimaced. "And that's bad, isn't it?"

"It is neither bad nor good. Original thought is required in science and mathematics, or we learn nothing. Why would you think novelty 'bad'?"

"Professor Pinar thinks I should just . . . well, follow the pack until I graduate the Academy master's program. He was really mad when I put the paper in for publication."

He had not met the person Aster indicated, but queried, "Why would Dr. Pinar be displeased? It is a reputable astrophysics journal."

"He's been, sort of, a mentor to me. Kind of. He didn't think it was publishable. I think he's mad that it was accepted."

"I see." Though inexpert in human expressivity, Spock could determine in Jacob's face that the situation was not satisfactory to the cadet. "Was Professor Pinar assigned as your mentor?"

"No, sir. He just up and said he'd do it for me."

Spock wondered at that. Most of the faculty complained that they did not have sufficient time to work on a mentoring role for the cadets, unless pressed. It was an unwelcome burden to many. "I would be pleased to aid you in your research, Mr. Aster, if that is what you wish."

The blue eyes lit up with such gratitude that Spock felt immediately uncomfortable and lowered his attention back to the computer.

"That would be so much more than I could ever hope for, sir. I've written another paper, if you would consider looking at it?"

"Certainly, though I hope your research is not interfering with your school work."

"Oh, no, sir, not at all. I get that done before I go to the labs." Glancing at the chrono on his data padd, Jacob murmured, "I should tell Dr. Pinar that I'm switching advisors, sir."

"Indeed. Did you have any questions regarding today's assignments?"

Jacob cocked his head. "I think that the Turgential spatial theory of time continuity went right over my head."

Spock didn't respond, uncertain of how to translate the vernacular.

"I mean, I didn't get it," Aster clarified. "Mathematically, it makes sense, but on a physics basis, it's incomprehensible. . . ."

Concerned that he had not imparted the information plainly enough, he noted that a review of his lecture was in order to focus on the section Jacob had mentioned, then began to discuss it with him.

By the time, Mr. Aster had left his office, Spock had to acknowledge that the student had a quick and ready facility with both math and physics, though his theoretical sources were inconstant and prone to criticism. Still, it had been an enjoyable meeting and he looked forward to continuing the association.

Dr. Turlofsky knocked on his door a few minutes later, and at Spock's nod, entered.

"Well, Spock, how are you making out?" he asked, settling himself on a chair and resting his hands on his stomach. His pewter eyes were settled in pouchy skin, indicating he had been working late hours.

"My classes are satisfactory."

"Yes, I thought they might be," he said with a chuckle. "Your students are complaining about the amount of work you're giving them."

He blinked. "Are they?"

" _Uh-hmm_. I don't consider that a bad thing though. Your science courses are some of the most difficult in the entire Academy. The heads of the departments are thrilled to have greater depth in their concentrations. Your name certainly livens up the stationery."

Spock frowned, not understanding the reference. "I beg your pardon?"

"You're impressive, Spock," Bader explained. "And your students are utterly in awe of you . . . as are some of the faculty," he muttered.

He remained silent. He had little use for such impersonal admiration.

"I'd like to spread you around a little more, give the other departments a chance to meet and work with you on projects, things like that. The science departments have a round table meeting every Monday evening in the staff dining room. Coffee, tea, snack food, that sort of thing. Eight o'clock tonight work for you?"

Spock nodded. "While I would have preferred greater advance notice, I will attend if you wish."

"Good. That'll put the wrench in the gossip."

 _Gossip?_ The word held negative implications. "I do not understand. Is there a problem?"

Bader smiled at him, appearing both tired and worried. "Only to be expected when a group of insular academics are confronted by the practical, real-world applications of their thinking." When Spock canted a brow at him, Turlofsky chuckled. "In other words, some of the faculty are unnerved to find a Vulcan scientific genius in their midst, Spock, and lots of beings don't react well to finding out they are not the top of the tree when it comes to their fields of study. You've published more papers, received more awards, and have been accepted to more societies than many of these beings could ever hope for, and it shakes up their sense of rank here. It's not the first time, and it won't be the last. Whenever a new researcher comes in to the collegia it happens. Just this time some xenophobia's coming into it, and I want that nipped in the bud, as does the Dean."

He hefted himself out of the chair with a groan. "I'm getting too old for this crap. Randile says I'm just tired and he's probably right."

"I am certain the beginning of a semester is always fraught with administrative difficulties, Dr. Turlofsky."

"Please call me 'Bader,'" he asked with a sigh.

Spock nodded. "As you wish."

"Every semester is fraught, though that's a polite way of putting it," Turlofsky agreed. "Randile turns an unbecoming shade of olive around this time of year until his department gets itself sorted out. No matter how much preparation we put in, it's never enough," he grumbled, and wandered into the hallway. "Tonight then, Spock."

"Until this evening."

Since he would not be at their apartment for a period of time this evening, Spock decided to leave the Collegium after his office hours. Meditation would be useful prior to this event, and he would appreciate time alone with his mate.

 

 

Jim looked at Spock over the remains of dinner. The Vulcan was discussing the possible "alien" at the Stearns dinner party, and the advisability of telling the admiral. It wasn't an option Jim was looking forward to. He could just imagine the other officer's response at the idea of his grandmother's image being used by an alien to give Kirk a warning of Stearn's intentions towards him.

He hadn't said much all evening. The situation at Ops and the ghostly visit last night had distracted him from the issues between them. He put his napkin on the table.

"Are you ready to talk about it?"

Spock did not attempt to dissemble; he just stood up and began to clear the table.

"Guess not," Kirk murmured.

"There is nothing to discuss. I must adapt."

Jim stood up and cut Spock off from the table, his hands out at waist level, open towards him. "Wait."

The Vulcan stood three feet away from him, appearing calm and composed, but there was an undercurrent of subtle tension in his frame that Jim could feel from where he stood. "Stop running from me," he urged softly. "Whatever this is, we can deal with it. Just talk to me." _Here._

Spock's shoulders slumped slightly, and he turned towards their bedroom.

Jim followed him onto the bed and into his arms. They lay together, Jim's head pillowed on Spock's shoulder, slightly curled into him.

_Th'y'la._

_Always, Spock._

_This, between us. . . .  The way I feel when we—I have never known its like. I am alarmed by my response to you._

Jim didn't say anything, certain it more important to listen than speak at the moment. Whatever Spock was feeling, it was vital that he know he was able to express it, and that Kirk wouldn't disparage his attempts to communicate such intense emotions. In the amorphous contact of their minds, he could sense Spock's fear, a hazy maelstrom of anxiety, dread, and apprehension that fouled the bond between them.

_When you touch me, I want. . . ._

When he didn't continue, Jim urged him on. _What? What do you want, Spock?_ He asked, willing to do anything, _be_ anything that would ease the ache he could feel inside them both.

_To know that you are as lost as I; to steal your control as utterly as you do my own._

Spock was not a virgin to male-female sex, Jim understood. But it was relatively unknown for it to include an emotional component as intense as this. And more than that, the dynamics of sexual control within a male-male couple was different, especially within a relationship as complex as their own. Spock was his equal in all things, primary in some aspects, and secondary in others.

He'd never considered himself inferior to Spock. Never wondered what it would be like if Spock were his senior officer, and he the junior. Their positions had only been reversed once or twice, and both of them had been relieved when Kirk regained control of both his ship and his life. He led, it was what he did, who he was.

_I am not asking you to change. It is I who must adjust, perhaps revise my initial vision of how we would interact within the bond._

_Wait a minute,_ Jim urged. _I need to think about this for a moment._ He didn't move, but he mentally pulled himself out of the link between them.

 _Spock's Vulcan, all the way,_ he told himself, _in every way that counts. He's smarter than I am, stronger than I am, and as I noted in the beginning of our five-year mission, had made the choice to subordinate himself to a Human captain, when inarguably, he could be running his own ship, whether composed of Vulcans, Humans, or a mixed crew. That was a given. But he aligned himself with me, and chose to willingly follow my star, come what may, forever being a full partner, but a subordinate one._

He bit his lip. _Perhaps, in this instance, he can't do that. Maybe he needs to be the one in command._

Kirk let that thought sit in his mind for a while, simmering away all sorts of emotions in his core and body.

The rampantly masculine Star Fleet captain stood up and raged, near-incoherent in its fury.

The sexual adventurer gave a smile and issued an invitation, moving his hips in wordless lust.

The womanizer had no idea what was going on. It liked girls and Spock had none of the curves he was used to.

The strategist smirked at his confusion.

And Jim Kirk, Iowa farm-boy at heart, wondered that he ever could have thought he could mate a full-grown Vulcan male in his prime and keep him satisfied without once asking him what he needed.

Spock shifted next to him. "I must go."

Kirk nodded and clambered out of bed. "We'll continue this when you get back."

Spock looked less than thrilled at the thought. "Of course."

After he'd gone, Jim paced through the apartment, trying to get his thoughts in order. Suddenly claustrophobic, he pulled open the balcony doors and stepped out onto the small rectangular terrace that overlooked the Academy grounds, and gazed over the Bay. Night had fallen and the antique Golden Gate Bridge shone brightly over the water, its lights twinkling and eclipsing the stars above it. Tourist boats bright with party lights and the exuberant sounds of a celebration echoed over the Pacific.

Folding his arms over the railing, he considered calling McCoy and then changed his mind. Bones was a gifted psychoanalyst, but Jim felt too raw to discuss the relationship with him this time. Sure, over the years he'd laughed or cried over the convolutions in his love life with his doctor−but this time, he'd made a commitment. This was no annual contract he could break if and when he chose. This was permanent, vital to their very lives, and however they proceeded in the future would be decided by the both of them, without input from anyone else. To discuss the stumbling blocks they encountered seemed treacherous somehow, and Kirk didn't argue with the feeling in his gut often−it was habitually correct and he ignored it to his peril and eventual regret.

Kirk knew his sexuality was flexible. He could happily be involved with males or females, and had known an androgyne or two in his time, too. Yet he'd always been the one calling all the plays. During the tumultuous affair he'd had with Chris Pike after the Academy and during different postings, he'd learned to his regret that he preferred being on top, a dominant man to his core.

And yet, so was Spock. Soft-spoken and articulate, coolly sensual and intensely cerebral, the Vulcan had awoken stirrings in him that he had yet to define, even at this late a date. Spock was overtly male, his masculinity threatened by nothing that could be externally defined. The ferocity of their coming together yielded volumes of information for the sensual experimentalist within Kirk, causing it to begin to pant in earnest pleading.

_Am I just seeing in Spock what I want to see? His needs, suppressed though they are most of the time, are just as vital as my own. Can I ignore them as the desperate denial of one who is afraid of his passions? Or do I accept that Spock knows what he wants and needs, but is willing to suppress them if that will please me?_

_Do I have the right to remove this chance of growth for him?_

_And for myself?_

_Could it make us stronger in the long run? Will it help us or hinder when his time comes?_

Jim Kirk stared out into the night and searched long and hard for the answers to these questions.

 

 

Spock was astonished by the number of people who were attending the science department meeting. They milled around the hallways and settled into study areas, talking, gesturing, and debating as he walked around them to get into the staff dining room. He saw Bader in a corner of the room with Randile and a Turgarian, whom he presumed to be Wryaleth, the head of computer sciences.

The Turgarian stood 3.5 meters tall, with long, thick ivory tusks extruding from her lower jaw and curling slightly. The sharp ends were covered in gold and small precious stones. Though the tusks were no longer used for battle, the embellishments on their lengths indicated the individual's status within their tribe. It was obvious Wryaleth was of significant age and consequence to her people. The pugnacious set of her expression was the norm for Turgarian females and while they could be truculent and confrontational, the depth of their loyalty for their friends and tribe were legendary. Small, pink eyes stared out from her gray, leathery face and her three fingered hands were tucked behind her, hidden in the folds of her voluminous gown.

"Spock of Vulcan!" she bellowed. As a greeting, it was sufficient to cause even the most intent on their conversation to break off and watch him make his way into the room. Though he had perfect control of his physiognomy, he had the sense that he was blushing a deep jade at the intensity of the gazes that were directed his way.

"Bader, Randile," he acknowledged as he neared them. "Dr. Wryaleth, I presume."

"As if I could be anyone else," she snapped in a deep bass voice. If not for the tusks, he would have thought her male. "Don't think about not doing at least two seminars a year for me, Spock. I won't have less."

"I do not believe two graduate seminars would be beyond my capacity, doctor," he told her dryly.

"Oh, don't let her bad manners fool you, Spock. She's itching to toss you into a corner and discuss that scrawl she calls a computer language," Bader told him, his pewter eyes dancing with humor.

Randile's translator let out a sqwauk that Spock presumed was a chuckle.

"Ignore them, Spock," Wryaleth growled, shifting her massive weight slightly and easily pushing Bader away from her side. He yelped dramatically and hopped about a foot to the left. Randile chuckled again, more explosively, and the Turgarian turned to it. "What do you have to say for yourself, Rand? I need more fiber in my diet; how about I rip off your arm and use it as a toothpick?"

The Andrasian buzzed and moved off, its shuffling movement quicker than Spock would have expected. Yet the Turgarian's manner had not been truly threatening and he was almost certain that it amounted to teasing rather than real danger.

"Don't let her talk you into anything else, Spock," Bader warned as he passed them both, moving nimbly past the encroaching tusk. "You're ours!"

"Greedy beggar," Wryaleth snapped, but her pink eyes followed the two beings warmly, her lips spread in the equivalent of a smile. "So, Spock. Are you enjoying beating knowledge into these dim-witted cadets we've got this year?"

"On the contrary, some are quite intelligent," he replied, thinking of Jacob Aster, in particular.

She grunted and apparently that was the end of the small talk as she began a discussion of the latest article from the Association for the Rights and Advancement of Artificial Intelligence. Spock had won a prestigious fellowship from them at twelve and continued to follow the e-magazine with eager attention to detail. One of the recent articles had focused on semantics for digital engineering preservation to support engineering design education and had been the object of a long electronic discussion between Spock, Scott, and a number of his own design engineers. The article presented examples of how better techniques could be used to encode speciﬁc engineering information packages and workﬂows to more efficiently translate into future design archiving. Spock had contributed an article regarding software language and intelligence matching to aide data retrieval and efficiency in the latest issue and was pleased at the response he had received.

They had just begun rating the effectiveness of the variable archival programs when a short human with a bald head and a protruding nose stepped to the center of the room and waited. The entire space quieted in just moments, all attention on the elderly female.

"Gentlebeings, good evening," she said, her voice softly modulated. "I am Rahne Esira, Dean of Science."

Spock looked at her. Rahne was one of the leading minds of the galaxy and had been for almost 75 years; a contemporary of Sarek, whose personal respect for her had few boundaries, she was ranked along with Cochrane, Einstein, Asimov, Hawking, and Dyson as those few who had changed the course of the galaxy's development. She was a brilliant researcher in medicine, xeno-anthropology, biochemistry, biometrics and astrophysics, a Renaissance woman who specialized in the entirety of experience, when the educational trend focused on more and more minute specializations. Her own concept of IDIC was based on Vulcan history, and she incorporated it into her teaching and work, insisting that there be no racial or xenoid bigotry accepted within her purview.

Now he understood the silent respect these beings gave to the diminutive woman, and agreed with it.

"We have a few new faces here this evening, and I'd like to get their introductions over with as soon as possible."

A small buzz began, but quickly subsided when she raised a wizened hand. "F'alomar of Antipode Prime, Faculty, Aerobiology; Indira of Aifa Terr, Adjunct, Astrogeology. . . ."

When she came to his name, he remained calm though the entire room turned as one towards him. "We are indeed fortunate to have an active member of Star Fleet as a new teacher and advisor. Please welcome Captain Spock of Vulcan, Esteemed Faculty, Artificial Intelligence and Computing, Astrophysics, Chemistry, Cosmology, Mathematics, Planetology, and," she paused and took a breath, "too many subspecialties to mention here."

He inclined his head in solemn acknowledgement of the introduction, and waited for the next member to be named.

When Rahne was finished, she waved the group away. "Go mingle," she told them, "and make nice! No arguing tonight. Wait till they've settled in before you start misbehaving."

The audience laughed and began to wander off in twos and threes. Bader and Randile came up to him and Wryaleth remained at his side, as he was presented to various deans, faculty, adjuncts and staff. There were well over three hundred beings present and by the time the evening ended a few hours later, he knew the names of almost all. Pointedly, quite a few in the AI and planetology divisions ignored him, but that was of no matter. Whatever their issues, they were trivial to the work required of him.

As Bader had warned, numerous other department heads took the opportunity to ask for him to teach a class or seminar. He suggested they send him a note with relevant information and he would determine if his ability matched their need. Spock quickly realized that he could easily become inundated with these requests.

As the crowd thinned, Spock excused himself from Bader, Randile, and Wryaleth and made his way to Rahne.

She smiled as he approached and stepped away from the group she had been in discussion with. "Spock," Rahne greeted, raising her hand in the conventional Vulcan greeting. "I am most pleased with your transfer to the Academy. I believe you can add a note of practicality to the teaching of our cadets."

"As do I, Dr. Esira. In some respects, the Academy is quite insulated from the actual functioning of Star Fleet, and has little understanding of how to teach cadets to prepare for the rigors of space. Likewise, the research of the sciences done here is in my estimation on par with that of the VSA."

Her green eyes glowed with satisfaction, turning her plain face almost pretty. "There is little I can do to add practical knowledge of space travel to the cadets within my sphere of influence. Yet I believe that your years in the service of the Fleet and Federation will add an emphasis on the applied rather than the theoretical."

"I will do what is possible, Dr. Esira," he replied, bowing lightly to her. "I am certain my father would wish me to present his felicitations upon your recent receipt of the Federation Achievement Award for the Advancement of Science."

"Thank you, Spock. Please present my best wishes to Sarek and Amanda when next you contact them. And do stop by my office; there are a number of ideas I'd like to bounce off your impenetrable logic, much as I did with your father so many years ago."

"I would be honored."

With that, she moved past him and out of the dining room, and Spock, finally alone, escaped.


	5. Chapter 5

McCoy glared at the message on his computer screen and cursed. As he said he would, he'd taken advantage of his newfound power to transfer Professor Lees from xenobiology to medical ethics.

The vodo-cursor blinked at him, patiently waiting for him to tell it what he wanted to do with the message.

He cursed at it volubly.

"Please repeat your command."

So he snarled at it in a mixture of guttural Klingon and French patois.

"Please repeat your command."

The mechanical voice would continue in this vein until he died of old age, or it finally figured out he wasn't listening.

Lees' note stated that he was taking advantage of a loophole in his contract, and resigning.

Effective immediately.

_The bastard. He knew that replacing him wasn't going to be either simple or quick. He did it just to fuck with me._

Which meant McCoy had to find a teacher _yesterday_ to replace him.

He cursed for a while longer, angrily aware he'd been truculent with Lees when a gentle hand would have been a far sounder method of dealing with him. But damn it, the man had made him furious. McCoy found xenoepidemiology fascinating, as Spock would say, and xenobiology was the stepping stone leading up to it. In order to make the most exciting class in all the curriculum boring, Lees had to have a rare talent, but somehow he'd managed to make watching paint dry more fun.

Now who the hell could replace him at the start of the semester without disrupting the entire group of classes the man had taught? _Droned at, actually_ , he mused. _Better he's done and gone, no matter what it costs in the short run._

He grimaced at the number of meetings he was slated to attend in the next few weeks as he reviewed his calendar, and subsequently wondered who he could strong-arm or wheedle into taking on Lees' classes. Most of the faculty were also researchers, practicing physicians or psychiatrists with full agendas of their own, divided between competing demands. As he assessed the staff on hand, he realized that no one was capable of taking on anything more.

McCoy looked at his desk, up to its edges in work. He needed a better system than the one he was currently using to keep track. And he needed to be involved with his students in a hands-on manner. How better to do that than teach?

He returned to his schedule and considered. _If I do rounds and doctor/patient evaluations in the early mornings, maintain Lees' classes in the morning, set meetings for afternoons, walk evening rounds, and then write the textbook at night, it's doable._

He could hear his mother's gentle, mellifluous voice asking, "And you'll eat and sleep when, Len?" It was her question whenever she thought his ambitious designs exceeded his grasp or his sense. And she had often been proven right, but not always.

In quick succession he sent a note to Lees' acknowledging his retirement, one to his aide to advise him of the changes he was making to the agenda, one to the registrar's office to do the same, and set his grocery delivery to be sent to his apartment on a regular basis, since shopping was one of the things he did least, and cooking even less so.

Aware of the lateness of the hour, he rose from his desk, and slipped out of his office, not surprised to see some of the other areas dark and locked up tight. The Collegium was never quiet though, an undercurrent of intense energy surrounding it, medical personnel and students burning the midnight oil in various libraries and labs.

It wasn't a long walk to the hospital, and his thoughts kept him busy as he strode along. He hadn't heard from O-Dia and hoped that her silence meant the young Tritt boy was holding on. He believed that he would either pull through or lose the fight quickly. Every hour was a gift, the next uncertain. As he made his way into the ward, he looked over the comp padd at the nurses' station which held Tritt's most recent diagnostics.

It didn't look good. Though the treatment was destroying the fungus, it was also burning away the young Arcturan's skin. Without the dermal covering, every possible infectious agent had to be scrubbed from the room, from airborne to contact bacteria, viruses, and prions. He slid on the protective gear and entered the isolation unit, the sickly icy-blue splotches on the patient's body being removed by a patient nurse as it separated from the boy's flesh.

O-Dia stood on the other side of the bed, holding Mr. Tritt's hand. His eyes were open, but the yellow depths were not aware. She gently placed drops onto his cornea and urged them closed again. The boy obeyed with a quiet sigh.

He was in no pain. McCoy could see the read-out above the bed showing no elevation of the indicator at all. But his metabolic signs were far too low for him to sustain life much longer.

It was a race. Either they destroyed the fungus before it killed him, or the treatment caused him to go into shock and die.

O-Dia's face was paler than usual, her exhaustion visible but contained within the red layers of the suit. There was nothing he could say to her that would ease the pain he could see in her eyes. Every healer made decisions that were difficult, and learning to make those decisions was something that only time taught.

He left the hospital some time later, having wandered through the corridors and familiarizing himself with its layout again. Though he'd served his xenobiology residence here, the facility had kept growing in the past five years and he needed to know where certain departments had been moved. He was sure he'd get a call if anything happened to Jim or Spock, since he'd been advised that he was their emergency medical contact.

The writing did not go easily−too many extraneous thoughts whirring around his conscious, but a few shots of bourbon eased him into the arms of Morpheus, and he was finally able to sleep.

 

 

When Spock returned to the apartment that evening, only one floor lamp was lit in the common living area, shrouding the rest of the space in darkness that even the exterior building lights could not dispel. There was a sense of expectation in the gloom and he could feel Kirk's tension rise perceptibly between them; it vibrated through the open rooms, causing the hair on Spock's neck to rise. Kirk waited in the shadowed area of their bedroom, and though he could not see him, he still knew he was there. Unaccountably uneasy, he edged closer, calling, "Jim?"

A figure moved then, treading hesitantly nearer. "Here, Spock. I finally figured it out."

"It?"

"Us. _You_."

Preoccupied with the heated scent of excitement invading his nose, Spock did not respond.

"I don't know if I can be what you want. What you need. But I'm willing to try."

Kirk appeared in the dim light from the lamp, wearing only a robe, the lapels open across his broad chest, the fabric barely closed over his hips. He was aroused, penis rising proudly, silhouetted by the shadows that covered him. Spock's mouth became unaccountably dry as the robe slid off the wide shoulders with a slithery sound, pooling on the floor. Bare feet padded quietly towards the bed and a sigh resonated in the still air as Jim settled himself on the surface.

Hesitating for only a moment, Spock followed, drawn to the lithe body lying naked before him.

Ready, waiting . . . just for _him_.

His previously dry mouth flooded with saliva and he was forced to swallow twice before regaining control of himself. Provocative images flashed into his mind with the speed of light, passing on to the next and further, until he stumbled to the bed and placed a trembling hand upon it.

Desire bloomed hot and fierce and his clothes were removed from his body in a flurry of cloth and torn fabric. But his fingers when he touched Jim were gentle, precious flesh trembling under them.

He hadn't known how much he wanted this until now, with Jim supine before him. Even with his vision, he couldn't see him; he only knew he was there by the warmth radiating from the bed. His hands shook, as if he had never touched his lover before tonight. And in a way he hadn't; he had merely followed Jim's lead, loving him in the Human way.

Tonight would be different. _They_ would be different.

Spock stroked Jim's foot, startled when he jumped, and hesitated.

"Just surprised me," Jim's voice told him. "Go on."

Doubt lashed him before lust silenced it, blood-green fire racing through his body, causing him to shiver with the heat of it, yield to the call of his heritage. . . .

Jim's lips were a cool, welcoming haven, gentle and sweet. But Spock was not a being from a gentle ocean-bound planet; his people lived in the fiery oases of the desert and their passion echoed that sun-blasted environment. Fiercely, he demanded Jim's compliance, even as he leaned over and devoured his mouth, absently nibbling his lips, following an agile tongue into cool, wet depths that offered much, but not . . . enough. Not . . . all.

There was a subtle resistance in Jim's mouth, a denial that Spock doubted Kirk was even aware of. It didn't matter, though; Spock could not, would not, tolerate any challenge. Defiantly, he continued, manhandling the human until Jim was wrapped tightly within his arms, back tense against the bed, body held within the circle of Spock's own. Unable to defy him, Jim's jaw fell open in heaving gasps for air, Spock's teeth nipping at the sensitive throat, pulling his hair back until Jim arched into him. He swallowed Jim's breathless moan, and demanded more of them as he continued to bite the soft lobe of his ear.

Kirk bucked, but he would have to become far stronger than he was to escape Spock's grip now. "Yield," Spock growled in his lover's ear. "You are _mine_ to do with as  I will."

Jim's reaction was a more ferocious struggle, but the Vulcan did not release him, too deeply enveloped in his own hungers. The kisses became more intense as Spock used his weight to pin Jim down, to taste the sweet, tender tissue of his throat, the salt flavor of his struggle stinging on Spock's tongue, the sweat from their bodies mingling on Jim's flesh, making him slippery in his grasp.

He could feel Jim's erection against his thigh, hard and strong even as he wriggled to escape from him. The emotion radiating from Jim's mind was neither fear nor terror, more a shocked alarm interlaced with a craving so intense it terrified the human.

Unsure, Spock hesitated, and in that moment, Jim attempted to bolt. Spock's arm around his hips kept him neatly pinned to the mattress, but he managed to become vertical until he reached the apex of the arc and was tossed down again.

Wordlessly, Jim fought his grip, straining with every ounce of muscle within his body to escape. In some part of his ancient primate brain, the Vulcan knew that should Jim succeed in his flight, any hopes of their maintaining a mating bond were nil.

"I will never let you go," he said harshly, urging Kirk to stop fighting him, settling more deeply between his human's thighs, the wiry hair on his abdomen stroking against Jim's organ, making him pant against his lips.

Without conscious thought of what he was about to do, following an instinct to mark Jim, to own him, he crouched back, releasing Kirk for only a moment before he pulled him over and onto his face, then blanketing him again.

If Jim had fought before, now he was a veritable beast to control, bucking and flailing to evade being pinned by Spock's strength. The Vulcan waited until he had exhausted himself, lying quiescent, before he nipped the back of Jim's neck, demanding he give in. Kirk let out a savage growl of his own, but no longer writhed as wildly, slowly coming to the understanding that in this battle he could not hope to win the day through strength alone.

Using his weight to keep Kirk contained, Spock grasped his mate's wrists and pulled them to his hips, effectively shackling his arms to his sides. He thrust his knees between Jim's legs and pushed them apart, not roughly but with an uncompromising, insistent power that would not be denied.

As he tongued his way down Jim's back, he lingered in the valley of his spine, enjoying the minute groans that Kirk was making as he ground himself into the bedding, thrusting to add friction. He knelt and moved further backwards, his own organ sliding along the slick body beneath it, catching here and there as it was dragged down the hot, wet length of Jim's skin. The fragrance of his body was driving Spock to feral depths he had never experienced before this moment; the scent was branded onto his synapses, demanding a physiological response of his own.

His penis wept hot acid rain, stamping himself on Kirk's skin, onto his flesh, mixing their scents into a heated, heady concoction of lust. Spock's fingers slipped across the plush mounds of Jim's buttocks, intrigued when Kirk jerked away and tightened up. He did it again and received the same reaction. Following some instinct older than myth, he tapped the upturned cheek with his palm, silently ordering Jim not to resist.

Kirk let out an outraged cry mixed with stunned pleasure, immediately causing Spock's hormones to rage perilously out of control. His fingers stole over the soft flesh, tips creeping into the hot recess between. Jim lurched upwards and this time his resistance was everything a masculine human like Kirk could offer, twisting ferociously in an attempt to evade Spock's wandering hand.

"The struggle will make it all the sweeter," Spock warned in a voice so dark and deep it barely sounded like himself.

Jim cursed softly. "Bastard."

Spock smiled, though Kirk could not see it in the dimness. "Indeed not," he whispered. One forearm rested upon Jim's lower back, while the other delved deeper between his cheeks.

"Oh," Jim moaned, clenching himself tight around his questing hand. Spock pulled his hand back and smacked Jim harder this time, refusing to allow Kirk a centimeter of skin that he did not own with lips, tongue and teeth.

The sound he made this time was more grunt than growl, and Spock reveled in his mastery. "Mine," he murmured, becoming more aroused as Jim's pheromones exuded their spicy heat into the air. He dipped his head and bit down carefully on one of the hard, thick bands of muscle, his teeth caressing deeply but carefully; he wanted no agony to mar their pleasure. And it was a vital pleasure, as the bond vibrated and howled between them, demanding Spock take his mate and seal the Bonding finally, for always, into eternity.

Spock's organ was weeping copiously now, and he slipped his fingers over and around the head, the flames that were burning so violently in his tense sac causing an ache that nothing but his mate could douse. It would be so easy to lose control now, to bury himself to the hilt into the warm/cool tunnel beneath him. But they were not ready, and he fought his desires to a standstill, until he could touch Kirk again without fear of taking him with no preparation or forethought.

Sweat rained down onto Jim's skin, bouncing where it struck. Spock's questing hand returned to the promise of Kirk's beauty, his tense body slowly relaxing beneath his arm. Brushing his fingers over the tense hole, the wetness of Spock's own desire dripping from the tips, he felt Jim give a minute thrust backwards, onto his forefinger.

Not giving his mate time to change his mind, Spock penetrated Jim lightly with his forefinger, his teeth once more denting the hard muscles here, lips tasting his skin.

With a gasp that could not have been feigned, Kirk pulled away, as if he understood just what Spock was doing . . . and climaxed violently, thrusting back on Spock's finger and into the bedding, a groan of ecstasy piercing the soft sounds of the late night.

He couldn't have prevented his own orgasm if a troop of Klingon warriors had rushed into the room, intent on murder. He thrust harshly into the bed, forcing his hips deeper into the wadded fabric of the sheets and blankets strewn around the mattress. After a few minutes, he wiped his hand onto the damp fabric and crawled on trembling limbs until he could encase his mate in his arms once more.

_Jim?_

Kirk did not immediately respond.

_G'night, Spock_ , he finally replied, and then the touch of his mind was gone, as if it had never existed.

The denial of their mental link was hurtful, but the slow realization that Kirk was unhappy by what they'd done . . . what he'd done . . . was unendurable.

"I don't understand," he managed to say aloud, his body shivering in the aftermath, longing to rest in the safe, welcoming depths of Kirk's mind, but devastated at his rebuff.

"It's me, Spock," Jim said, his voice both tired and sad. "I'm . . . let's talk about it later. We're both tired and I can't handle a sexual autopsy at the moment."

Spock was a Vulcan and inherent to that species was a large quantity of understated pride. While due to his hybrid nature Spock had been rejected by many he thought would accept him, this refutation of almost the deepest intimacy he could offer was more than he could stand.

He turned away, hiding the pain, pushing it down into the place where all the other hurts of his life had been deposited and denied. He stood up on legs hollow with fatigue and walked to the bathroom to wash away the bitter evidence of the end of their bond.

 

 

When Jim awoke the next morning, Spock was already gone for the day. He felt a frisson of concern, but presumed the Vulcan had early meetings or something else to do. He sat up in bed, noting the mess of it, and the dried-on semen that crusted his thighs and gummed his pubic hair. Embarrassed for no reason he would name, he rose and showered quickly, needing any physical reminder of last night removed. He couldn't think about it yet.

He wasn't hungry, so he drank only coffee before he left the apartment. It was early, even for Ops, so his office was dark and quiet, Nils not having arrived yet. His desk was covered in work; granted it was neat and tidy, but it was still a big pile of crap to do. Thankfully, he had pawned off the actual _doing_ to Neely while he worked on far more operations intensive and strategically-oriented tasks.

As he sorted through what he needed to handle and what he could hand off to his aide, Jim thought of Spock.

And realized that the resounding silence in his head was unusual, but this sense of being cut off from his mate was really odd.

_Spock?_

There was no reply to his query. He tried again with more force. _Spock!_

Again, there was no response.

Pulling out his communicator, he called the Vulcan, but Spock did not answer. Kirk glanced at his chrono and noted the time. Though he didn't teach until 8 a.m. most days, Spock could have been in the labs, concentrating on his research, or doing a thousand and one other things that would have caused his attention to focus exclusively on his work.

_Bullshit!_ the strategist growled. _He always listens for you. What have you done now, James T.?_

Kirk didn’t have the patience to listen to the strategist's acidic commentary. _Not now, damn it!_

When noon came and the Vulcan had not contacted him, the lowering feeling that Kirk had known since he'd woken up that morning had grown into a full-grown headache.

By the time his work day had finished, Jim was tired, cranky, worried and hungry. He was furious that Spock was not responding to him. He left his office, intent on tracking down his errant Vulcan and explaining the error of his ways in sharp detail. By the time he had walked to their apartment and opened the door, he was quite ready to nail his Vulcan hide to the nearest wall for scaring him like this.

Their home was empty. Determined to track him down, Jim left the apartment and walked to the Academy Collegium, the cool Fall air calming him somewhat. The juxtaposition of what had happened between them last night and Spock's silence were two items that were too odd to be unrelated.

_And what did happen last night, Jimmy?_ the strategist asked. _Did your Vulcan give you what you asked for?_

_Shut up,_ Jim told it abruptly.

_Can't handle your man playing with your ass? You know he's gonna take it sooner or later, right?_

Jim didn't respond, didn't want to think about that. What had happened last night scared the crap out of him.

_Why? Because you liked it?_

_Shut up!_

_It's not a crime, James T. You never let Pike fuck you and it busted you right up. But Spock? He's got the stuff to make you take it and love it. And that scares you spitless, doesn't it, Jimmy-boy?_

He walked faster.

_You can't run from this, Admiral,_ the strategist warned gently. _Remember you were thinking it was important for your growth as a couple to have Spock direct your lovemaking rather than you riding roughshod all over his needs? What you did was right._ A lazy chuckle filtered into his mind. _You just didn't expect it to rock you the way it did. No crime, no shame. It was good. Hell, it was great. Besides, are you ever going to have another lover? Spock's seen the good, bad, and the ugly of you, so what are you so afraid of?_

_I don't know._

_Yes, you do. You're scared that he'll make you like it so much that you'll crave it. You know you've got what it takes to be his good little whipping boy. Your old lover taught you that, but he let you go rather than holding tight when you ran away from yourself. Spock won't do that. You'll have to take it, accept it . . . maybe even love it._

_Oh, god._ He stopped and stood by one of the benches that wound around the public spaces of the various collegia, just outside the Science building. For a few minutes, he let himself remember what it had felt like to be a cadet here. Though it had been challenging at times, it had been some of the best years of his life. He'd truly grown into the man he would become in these worn buildings and courtyards, learning more about himself than he had anything else. He'd loved and lost Carole Marcus here, failed and re-created the _Kobiyashi Maru_ scenario (causing a scandal in the process), becoming a cadet legend in the process . . . and fallen head over heels with another man.

He let himself think about that, remembering the tall, strong man he had adored, the amazing blue-steel gaze, handsome face, strong, silky body . . . and that was just the outside. Chris had been what every command cadet dreamt of being: his integrity, strength of will, and personality engendered a form of loyalty in his friends that could not be broken.

Jim had never been shy when it came to sex and he had had his fair share of flings and serious relationships by the time Chris had come into his life. Pike had been five years his senior, teaching at the Collegium while overseeing the building of the new starship _Enterprise,_ which he would command. From the moment they had laid eyes on each other, the intensity of what they meant to one another had never faded. Even now, Jim knew that he had never known another lover who came close.

Until Spock.

Like Chris, Spock _knew_ him, could reach under the impenetrable mask of a starship captain, and find the man within. They had both seduced him in different ways: Chris through gentle words, even more cautious loving, and then finally, using the most intense sexual domination techniques to bring Kirk to heel before Jim ran from him in terror of his own desires.

Spock had been more subtle, his loyalty, hard-won affection, and now-passionate love so deep, so illuminating of the man Kirk wanted to be, that he could no more deny what they shared then that he was human. He was irrevocably in love with Spock and knew that he would do anything to keep him.

_Anything._ Even if that meant letting go of the tight rein he held on the darker part of his nature, the one that wanted to yield all and submit.

He let out a deep breath and then another, confidence once more running like a stream through his mind and body. He was set on his course, and lifted his chin.

He had to find Spock.

 

The halls were quiet. Spock sat in his office, gazing at the computer idly. He was up to date on his grading, project preparations, assignments, and student advisement. He'd been working diligently all day in a vain attempt to marshal his errant thoughts into a semblance of composure.

Jim had pulled away from him last night, both mentally and physically. The rejection had wounded Spock in a way he could never have prepared for.

He fought his way through the emotions roaring for freedom, those demanding he find his mate and take him, violently, completing their Bonding in the most primal manner.

Logic reminded that even without the penetration of both body and mind that would finalize their mental and physical link, the fact remained that Kirk was his bond-mate; there could be no returning to a mere friendship now. The attempt they had made on Vulcan to fracture the link was definitive proof that it was not feasible without killing Kirk and possibly himself in the process. Jim's near-stroke during the first attempt had been too close in McCoy's estimation. And in truth, Spock would never allow it. He knew himself well enough to know that he would die rather than give his mate up. No matter that the Bond was incomplete—it was a part of him now, a deeply felt, intense pleasure that fulfilled him in ways he could not have imagined a year ago.

He would have to learn to control his own desires in some manner he did not know of yet. Jim was obviously disgusted by their act of last evening, perhaps even by _him_ , a looming revelation too painful to truly take in.

As Kirk had closed his side of the link last night, Spock had not touched the mind that drew him so fiercely. He had avoided even thinking of Jim, uncertain whether it would be enough for them to communicate once more. It would not be possible for him to maintain a contact of that depth without knowing Jim's thoughts—and if they contained any particle of revulsion, Spock knew he would never be able to cope.

But could he, should he, attempt to hold a man who did not want him in the manner he so craved? His sexuality was as much a part of him as Kirk's was; no more, no less. While not as apparent as the human's, it was still an essential part of his composition.

He sighed softly, his thoughts far away. He stood, unable to make a decision, and walked to the large windows, staring out. _What should I do?_ he had asked himself a dozen times that day. Logic dictated that he should return to his home and meditate on the situation. But logic did not take into account how ferociously his heart demanded recompense for the pain it suffered. Logic did not know or care about the curve of his lover's lips when he smiled, the green-gold of his eyes and how a smile made them sparkle, the smell of his skin, or the softness of his hair. Logic could never correlate the touch of a man's hand on his own with the slow and heavy response of his heart, or how just a glance could turn every thought to one of passion. Logic could not comprehend why Spock hesitated to return to a place where every shadow, every fabric reminded him of one man, the one he could not have.

The collegium was quiet at this time of night, students who were remaining in the labs or libraries working intently, unaware and uncaring of a Vulcan's broken heart. He looked out into the night, and barely heard his office door open.

The face he saw reflected in the window glass wore an expression of pain and fear identical to his own. Kirk appeared both frightened and resolute, his eyes shining with relief when he saw the Vulcan. He closed his eyes and stood quietly for a long moment, a brief reprieve, for Spock still did not know what he would say.

Finally, Kirk spoke. "I couldn't reach you." It was barely a whisper, but he moved forward as he said it, until he was right next to Spock, so close they could touch.

Spock's mouth tightened. "You did not wish to . . . last night." He couldn't prevent the pain from being evident in his voice.

Jim looked down, his shoulders slumping slightly, enough to bow their width in the green and gold command shirt. "We need to talk about that. You want to do it here?"

"The location will not change what must be said," Spock advised, wanting desperately to both punch Kirk and kiss him in the same moment.

His bond-mate looked into his eyes and did not flinch from the emotions he must have seen there. "Last night. Was that real? I mean, was it what you really wanted?"

Spock straightened. Here was the question, placed as baldly in front of him as could be wished for. Did he break whatever trust they still shared and lie? Did he tell Jim the truth? Did he prevaricate and wait to see if Jim would hint at which reality he would prefer?

He hesitated, and in that moment, Kirk's eyes went wide, the pupil's growing enormous. Before Jim could speak again, Spock murmured, "It was both less than what I would desire and more than I could have hoped for." As much as he tried to relax his body, he could not. Every muscle was fiber-taut, suspended over a fearsome abyss, waiting for the words that would drop him into an agony of repudiation.

Jim moved closer, until their faces were only inches apart. He reached for Spock's hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the knuckles and holding it against his chest. There were tears yet unshed in his remarkable eyes. "I am honored by your love for me, Spock, truly I am."

He closed his eyes, waiting for the death blow to be delivered.

"You have more courage than I do. You showed me how you wanted me, gave me a glimpse of the most intimate side of your soul—"

Suicide was not unknown on Vulcan; those left behind often chose to end their lives by—

"I was the one who jibbed on you." He kissed Spock's hand again and stepped away, releasing him. "It was so good, so intense—I loved it, loved you, being that way with me. I wanted it so badly that I was petrified of what that meant." He turned away, his face in shadow, only his voice connecting them now. "I was in love with another man, a long time ago. He tried to teach me the joys of giving up control, of giving myself totally over to a lover . . . but I didn't trust him enough, didn't know who I was then."

The revelations were so thick and fast, Spock could barely breathe. "And now?"

"Do I know who I am now, do you mean? Yes, I think so." His voice was low and intimate. When Kirk looked back at him, he was speared by the expression in his eyes, one of shame, anguish, and pain. "If nothing else, I know I'm yours."

There was no conscious decision on Spock's part. All he knew was that he was five steps from his mate and that was too far. He kissed Jim hard, fiercely, demanding his surrender and Jim resisted, then gave it to him, opening his mouth and ceding himself so beautifully that Spock grew fiercely aroused in moments, hungering to plumb the depths of this brave, beautiful man he so adored.

He opened his side of the link to find Jim's nervousness all over it. He was truly afraid, of this, of so many of the intimacies they had yet to enjoy. Spock could feel Kirk's love for him, enmeshed within their bond, a living, breathing part of them both. "Yes, you are mine," Spock warned, knowing his voice was raspy with fierce desire. "And ever will be." He crushed Jim against his chest, holding him tightly, enjoying the sensation of his heart beating strongly against his chest, the bulky strength of his body, the weight of him no effort to hold upright.

"Does this male still live?" he heard himself ask, astonished by the fury that had erupted within him at Jim's words.

He heard Jim's soft chuckle. "I'm a little worried to tell you either way. Are you going to track him down?"

Spock considered that, well aware that if he did ever meet Kirk's former lover it would be difficult to maintain his stoical Vulcan calm around him. Actually, he would probably prefer to break his neck.

"I will not."

"Hmm. Maybe it would just be wiser not to mention it again," Jim said, his arms wrapped around Spock's waist, looking up with a soft smile.

"You will tell me his name, though, will you not?"

"I don't think we'll ever meet up with him again. Does it matter?"

"Everything you are matters to me," Spock replied.

Jim bit his lip and said nothing.

Spock could see that he already regretted telling him. "It is of no great importance, Jim. Not now. But some day, you will trust me enough to tell me."

"It's not a matter of trust, Spock," Kirk said, his expression tightening. "I trust you with my life."

"Yes," Spock said gravely, "when we are on a mission or in some dangerous situation. That, apparently, is easily given, for if you die, you die a warrior, a soldier, and you are prepared for that."

He set Jim away from him and stepped back, clenching his fists lightly. What he had to say was painful, but it must be said, if they were to have any hope of survival at all. "But you obviously do not have faith that I will cherish the gift of your body, of your love, or your soul, the deepest essence of you. You have no confidence that I will keep your past as dearly private as do you."

"Wait a minute, Spock!" Jim growled. "I have every right to be reserved about my former lovers. There's no reason for you to know—"

"There is every reason!" Spock snapped back, furiously angry in a way he had never known before. "A Vulcan keeps nothing from his mate. Your mind is my mind—we are one being, one purpose, one soul. I do not begrudge you your worry regarding sex with me; on the contrary, I understand it. But to hide this person who—"

"Chris Pike."

Spock stopped and stared, quite certain he had misheard. "I beg your pardon?"

Jim rolled his eyes and placed his hands on his hips, clearly challenging. "Christopher Pike," he said slowly, as if to one mentally defective.

The Vulcan turned away, so blazingly jealous in that moment, he could easily have murdered both Kirk and Pike had they been in the same room. It was illogical, this type of rage an emotion so beyond his experience, so impossible to contain, his normal controls were shattered by the storm. His hands clenched tightly into fists and he backed away from his mate, turning abruptly to face a wall. He closed his eyes and attempted to calm himself, whispering softly in Vulcan as he used detailed mental techniques to clear his body of the hormones and enzymes that were further exacerbating his temper, attempting to return it to homeostasis before he became ill.

He was wet with sweat by the time it was done. Kirk was pale and tense, clearly alarmed by his reaction, standing by the door, obviously ready to flee if needed.

"Peace, _th'y'la_ ," Spock whispered, feeling battered and exhausted by the emotional storm he had just weathered. "No more."

Jim came to him slowly, obviously wary. "Let's go home, Spock."

He nodded in reply, his body stiff and pained from the whiplash of emotions he had endured in the past forty-eight hours. Kirk took his arm and they slowly and silently walked together to their apartment.

Once there, Spock showered, and dressed in comfortable clothing. He said nothing further and retreated to the corner where his firepot rested. Falling to his knees, he clasped his hands tightly together and sank into a deep, intense meditation, desperate to find balance once more.

 

 

Kirk didn't hesitate to contact McCoy. He'd never seen Spock like this outside of his _pon farr_ and feared that it was coming upon him now, when they could not have been less prepared for it.

Thankfully, Bones didn't ask a lot of questions over the comm. Jim waited by the front door, wanting to give Spock as much peace in this corner of the apartment as he could, but unable to settle his own emotions as easily.

_What the hell possessed me?_ he asked himself for the tenth time. Spock's relationship with his former captain had been intensely loyal, fiercely protective, and violently stubborn. Kirk had been ashamed that it was Spock who had been the one to return Pike to the Talosians. He had risked everything to give him a life that otherwise would have been doomed to a chair, unable to move or speak. And that was no way for a man like Chris to exist after giving his all to the Fleet and Federation as _Enterprise_ 's former captain.

Jim had occasionally wondered if Spock had even been a little in love with Chris. It would have been easy enough to do; they had served together for over ten years, and Spock had never been the kind of man to do things half-way. His affection was understated but iron-clad.

Bones appeared tired when he arrived, but his cool demeanor was a welcome respite from his own worry. "Okay, Jim, calm down. What happened?"

Jim didn't know what to say, raising his hands to highlight his inadequacy. McCoy frowned, before walking into the bedroom to the unmoving Vulcan still kneeling by his firepot to scan him. The little machine bleeped and whirred, diagnostic readings being highlighted fast and thick across the screen. With no hesitation, Bones reached into the bag slung across his chest, inserted a hypo cartridge, and pressed it to Spock's arm. The Vulcan twitched slightly, but didn't stir further.

After more readings, Bones gave him another shot. The frown slid from his expressive face as whatever he was seeing on the screen appeared more suitable to Spock's unusual physique.

Then McCoy looked at him, his attitude belligerent. "What the hell really happened here, Jim?"

"How is he?"

"His system is in a form of shock. He's working to get himself back to normal, and the injections I gave him will help that along. He won't be fit for duty tomorrow though." He glanced back at the silent, kneeling man. "I've never seen him this far off the Vulcan physical map before."

"We had a fight," Jim replied simply, heading for the living room bar and pouring himself a shot of his own particular brand of medicine, and one for McCoy.

"You had a fight," McCoy repeated, deadpan. "Okay. Go on."

Jim tossed back the shot in one go. "We've been having some issues . . . and then we had this fight tonight."

"And it was about what, exactly?"

Kirk poured himself another, and waited for McCoy to catch up. "A few things, but what really set him off was my mentioning Chris."

"Chris Pike? Why would that be a problem?" Bones asked, sipping his second bourbon attentively.

Jim sighed and avoided the most complex issue. "He was insisting that I didn't trust him, and somehow we got around to my lovers, and—"

"Are you trying to tell me that you told Spock about you _and_ Chris?"

Kirk nodded and grabbed the bottle to pour himself another drink.

"Good God. What were you thinking? That would be more than enough to set up a ruckus! Spock idolized Pike." McCoy glared at him. "You know that, Jim. He went to the wall for him!"

"I know, I know."

"So how could you throw that in his face? He's possessive of certain people by nature—and whatever was going on between him and Pike was enough to make him willing to be court-martialed to do right by him." He sent Kirk a disgusted glance and then quieted. "So, what did he say?"

"Say? He didn't say a damned thing! He looked like he was going to murder me instead," he replied, then said more softly, "I pushed him too far this time, Bones. He was so angry. . . ."

McCoy sucked his teeth. "Vulcans control the darker emotions of theirs because they were too close to wiping out their entire civilization. That's not to say they don't have them, and in very large doses. Every one of the bad ones are still intact: jealousy, greed, lust . . . enough to make my Baptist forebears fall on their knees in prayer for their souls."

Kirk nodded. "I know. But he's never lost it like that before, Bones."

McCoy rapped his knuckles on the bar for emphasis. "Seyjan did try to warn you, Jim. Spock is an emotionally repressed being, a tank under pressure, and here you come along and blow the cap right off. It's inevitable there will be an explosion or three along the way."

"Could his . . . you know, his time . . . be coming?"

McCoy looked down at his medical scanner and pressed a button or two. "Nope. Just plain ol' Vulcan territoriality. You flipped his switch and it blew up on you."

Jim let out a deep breath. "So he'll be all right?'

"Yes. Physically. Mentally . . . that's another question. Some sitting down and talking might help."

"Yes," Kirk agreed, staring morosely down at his empty glass.

"Jim? Are you okay?"

"Sure. Nothing a few hours sleep won't cure."

McCoy eyed him narrowly. "Don't lie to your friendly neighborhood doctor."

"How about to my cranky, curmudgeonly, opinionated, pain-in-the-ass doctor?" he asked with an attempt at humor.

"Jim." The blue eyes were dark as S'dina sapphires and as deep. "Talk to me."

Kirk wrapped his fingers around his glass and held on. "I think I really hurt him, Bones. The expression on his face . . . I'll be seeing that in my dreams for a long time."

"So why do you think you did it? Why tell him something you knew, deep down, he wouldn't be able to handle?"

"Because I can be an utter bastard sometimes, Bones," he admitted softly. "He was pushing me hard and I wanted him to back off."

McCoy nodded slowly. "Okay. So you understand now that you can't poke this panther through the bars, right? The bars that keep Spock's savagery in check protect you and everyone around you. They're real and built for a purpose we, as humans, can't really relate to."

"I love him so much, Bones," Jim whispered, the knot in his throat choking him.

"I know you do. Just go easy." He put down his drink and walked towards the door. "Oh, and Jim?"

"Yes, Bones?"

"I'll send you a bill for my services."

Kirk chuckled. "You do that. I'll be sure to file it exactly where it belongs."

"I don't doubt it."

Jim smiled as their friend left. He cleaned up the bar area, and then went to take a shower. He had never been much for pajamas, but tonight he felt the need for clothes, and slipped into a shirt and sleep pants.

Stripping the bed, he replaced the dirty bedding with fresh, and made it neatly once more. Then he turned off the lights, and went to sit with Spock. In the light of the firepot, the Vulcan looked exhausted, pale jade lines of stress engraved beneath his closed eyes and around his jaw. His hands trembled occasionally, but Jim didn't reach out to touch him. At this point he doubted it would help. He couldn't feel Spock through their link, and if not for the fact that he could see him breathing, he couldn't have said whether his mate was alive or dead.

Spock was deep within himself and occasionally, as Jim watched, he grimaced in pain or frowned deeply. Whatever he was doing or feeling, he was not having an easy time of it. Determined to do what he could to help, Jim sat with his back against the nearest wall, and prepared to wait for whatever happened next. If Spock fell over, he'd carry him to bed to rest. If he was threatened, Kirk would protect him. And if he needed someone to love him for the rest of his life, Jim would be there. Through the ruts in the road and the aches and pains of existence, he would stand tall at his side, for as long as Spock wanted him.

If Spock did still want him.


	6. Chapter 6

Savion Tritt lay on the green isolation bed, O-Dia on one side, McCoy on the other. The boy had died early that morning. It wouldn't be known until the autopsy was complete whether it had been the treatment or the fungus that had killed him, but at the moment the cause wasn't important. It was the fact that a young boy, isolated from his kind, had died with only his doctor to comfort him.

O-Dia was devastated. McCoy could see it in her trembling hands as she signed the chart later, the curve of her shoulders, the shimmer of her gray eyes as she watched the portable isolation unit take his body away.

 For no particular reason than it would feel good, he wanted to hold her, to give comfort in the most primal way two people could. But he hardly knew the young Pellucidan woman well enough to buy her a cup of coffee, never mind offer an intimacy he was unsure if her people even shared.

Besides, she was one of his students now. Ethically, he couldn’t date her if he wanted to. And he did want to, he admitted to himself. Another reason to damn Lees.

As her gaze followed the isolation unit, he grasped her arm and gently turned her in the other direction. "Come along. I need a cup of coffee and its bad form to drink alone."

She didn't respond initially, but went along willingly enough. "I thought that was just for alcohol."

He grinned. "It is. But who knows if I'll be forced to take an alcoholic drink if I don't have good company to keep me away from it?"

"Somehow, I don’t think I'm good company at the moment."

He glanced down at her dark head. "That's okay. I'll talk to myself and you can just listen. All right?"

Her smile was wan but it was there. "All right."

Once they were in the staff cafeteria and McCoy was drinking the amazingly bad swill that they considered coffee, she asked, her face serious, "Was there anything else I could have done? Would beginning the treatment earlier have made a difference?"

He looked in her eyes, and remembered how very young she was. Granted there was only about ten years between them, but they had been hard and fast years for him. "I don’t know, O-Dia. I can't say if anything would have helped once the infection took hold. You know that."

"But you would have started treatment sooner, wouldn't you?"

He spread out his hands on the table, showing the various nicks, cuts and scratches that had turned into scars he hadn't bothered to laser away. "Dia, I'm basically a battlefield surgeon. Sure, I love epidemiology of all kinds, but I'm a cutter by trade. It's true that surgeons don't hesitate; it's not in our nature. We're little tin gods in our O.R.s and I don't disagree with that assessment. The real question is: What do you think should have happened? How can you prevent another young man from dying in the same way? _That's_ your job as a doctor, to prevent disease and cure the sick."

She idly stirred her tea, looking into its murky brown depths as for an answer. "I should have begun treatment sooner. It would have given him a fighting chance."

"I concur. But _only_ a fighting chance; he was in trouble from the moment that fungus got him. If you had begun treatment earlier; if his folks hadn't waited to bring him in; if he had responded to the anti-fungals better—who knows? The prognosis might have been better. If, if, if."

She didn’t say anything, but McCoy could see the tears in her eyes.

"Dia. You tried. You cared. Now go find out what killed that boy and don't let it happen again."

O-Dia stood up, her pretty face wiped of tears and carrying a more resolute expression on it. "I'll do that. You'll be at the M&M?"

"I'm sure they'll invite me, considering it was my treatment plan."

She nodded. "And my patient."

He sighed as she walked away, admiring her legs in her short dress, and damned Lees again as he stood up and walked to the nearest elevator to go make morning rounds with his interns and residents.

 

 

Spock opened his eyes.

It was morning and the sun shone through the open curtains, overpowering the glow from the firepot. He turned his head and saw Jim, sitting quietly against the wall, watching him.

He felt exhausted, as though he had run the Mithrimates marathon on Pelos IV, 254 miles over mountains and valleys.

Twice.

Jim's gaze was calm, the green-gold of his eyes bright, even though he appeared not to have slept. The bed was still made.

"I should attend to my classes," Spock said, but his voice was a croak of sound, dry and cracked.

"You're on medical leave today," Jim informed him gently. "Bones advised the Collegium so your classes would be covered."

"McCoy was here?"

"Last night."

"I do not remember his arrival."

"You were . . . here," Jim told him, indicating the meditation mat. "He gave you a few shots to help you deal with the fall-out."

Spock blinked. "Fall-out?"

"Don’t you remember?"

He focused on what his memory told him. Usually crystal-sharp, many of the events of the past two days were not possible to view, as if they had been erased, or in some manner, hidden from his sight. What he did remember made him nauseous, though a solid context to place that physiological sensation was not possible to create.

"Jim?" he asked, hearing the fear in his own voice.

"I'm right here. Come on, get up," Kirk urged, getting him to his feet, and then to the bed. Once settled there against the pillows, Jim sat by his side and grasped his hand.

"Maybe you shouldn't try to retrieve the memories yet. There's a lot we need to talk about. Perhaps it would be better to just do it, and then the memories won't hurt as much as they might."

Spock had no clue as to what had happened, but he was alarmed. Only one person could have locked down certain memories in this fashion, a method of protection that had been taught to him by Sarek when he was just a child and was grieving over the loss of I'Chaya. "Please tell me."

Jim pursed his lips for a moment. "We had a fight. I said some things that I shouldn't have. And you. . . ."

The expression on Kirk's face was so upset, so frozen in anguish that Spock had to ask, "What, Jim?"

"For a moment there, I thought you just might kill me, you were so angry."

He sat back deeper upon the pillows and digested both his words and their import. "I cannot feel your side of the link."

"I closed mine, then you closed yours . . . we argued, you got angry, and here we are."

"I can think of no reason why I would respond in this fashion. Unless you have betrayed me." He said it calmly, but the way his blood thumped against his temples was sufficient warning that he was not tranquil regarding the prospect.

Jim sighed. "A long time ago, I had a lover. A male lover. He meant a great deal to me. But . . . I couldn't give him what he wanted. What I want to give to you." He smiled, and Spock could see and feel his love reach across the air between them, seeming to settle into his flesh and bones. "Everything. All that I am, and will be."

Jim grasped his hand, gently stroking over his fingers. "We separated, were over and done with, and I haven't seen him for a few years."

"Why would this disturb me so greatly? If it is, as you say, over, then why was I angry?"

"Because of whom it was."

If it were possible to have a warning light go off in Spock's mind, the subtle thrum of dimly remembered wrath was it. "Wait," he warned, closing his eyes and deliberately reaching for his control. "Do not tell me. I am not prepared."

Jim remained quiet, while Spock slowly and carefully judged the barriers he had placed around the memories of last night, and eased the protections down, one at a time. He saw them in his office at the collegia; was able to deal with Kirk's fear of him, of their sexual pyrotechnics; he could remember his lack of understanding of the limits of Jim's trust in him. But when he came to the last barrier, it would not be shifted.

"This person," he asked cautiously. "Do I know him?"

"Yes," Jim immediately said. "But I don't love him, Spock. I love you."

He didn’t care for this silence. "Give me your thoughts," he said peremptorily.

"I don’t think that's wise," Jim demurred.

"You refuse me?" Spock asked, astonished at the idea his bond-mate would deny him.

"Only to protect you, Spock," Jim said, his voice and manner intended to soothe.

"I will not be coddled in this manner," he advised harshly. "I will have your mind to mine, _th'y'la_ ," and moved his hand to Jim's face to facilitate the connection.

"Wait!" Jim asked. "Please."

"Why?"

Kirk looked at him, confusion and worry written plainly across his handsome visage. "Spock, what I said last night hurt you a great deal. What if you see it in my mind?"

"It is unlikely that I will have as fierce a reaction as I did last evening. I already _know_ who it is, though I have no conscious recollection of learning it." He canted his head to the side, curious. "Are you concerned I will injure you, Jim?"

"It would be nothing more than I deserve if you did, Spock. I lashed out at you, deliberately, upsetting you so badly that I can barely look at myself."

Spock held onto Kirk's hand, squeezing gently but with possessive pleasure. "You are mine, Jim. No ghost from the past can hold you if you do not will it." He lifted his chin. "In any event, we cannot remain as we are, frightened of shadows and words unremembered. I would have it all back, as it should be, without the terror of children at bad dreams."

"Spock . . .," Jim sighed, and then he slumped slightly, his body language both yielding and fatigued. "Are you ready?"

In answer, Spock lowered his mental shields, deliberately opening himself to Kirk's mind. Jim did the same, and in the rush of impressions Spock received, he saw so much that he had not understood last night. But now, seeing them through his mate's eyes, he could feel the depths of Kirk's shock at his own desires, how deeply they drove him in opposite directions, and how those directions had led him to. . .

 

Tall   fierce blue eyes   tender kisses    moonlight beaches

 

      . . . . . picnics   dawn swims   horseback rides   marathon lovemaking                           

             . . . .  brutal arguments . . .  painful memories of failure

 

                                 . . . . Christopher Pike

 

                                                                                      and then to Spock.

He realized then that the emotions that had stunned him to near-madness were predicated upon Kirk belonging to Pike fully, as he had not yet been with Spock. He could see from his mate's mind that this had not been the case and that soothed his pain. Whether Jim had loved Pike or just been his lover, the relationship no longer mattered. He belonged to Spock now.

"Spock?" Jim asked. "Are you all right?"

_I am quite well. I understand now, so much that I could not before._

_Maybe you should lie down. You still look terribly pale._

_Only if you are with me._

Jim didn’t argue. His head came to rest on Spock's shoulder, one arm encircling his abdomen, their bodies touching all the way down. He was oddly reserved, his usual boldness strangely absent.

_We are at a crossroads, Jim. Who we will be must be made manifest if we are to continue._

Jim did not reply immediately, the tension in his body slowing bleeding away as he relaxed further and deeper into Spock's hold. _I know. It won't be easy, Spock. I'm not always the man you might want me to be. I'm not always the man I want me to be, for that matter. I can be just as mean, petty, selfish and vindictive as anyone else._

 _You are as you are. I would not exchange you for anyone else._ Spock imbued that thought with as much respect, affection, and love as it would hold, and was rewarded by Jim's sigh against his neck, and a further easing of the emotional estrangement between them.

What he received in return was a blast of emotion, jumbled, chaotic, but charged with respect, admiration, and love so intense, he could not process the input immediately. His throat tightened and he felt tears gather in the corners of his eyes. He could not have spoken aloud if he had to in that moment, so fierce were the emotions pouring through their linked minds.

Exhaustion suddenly swamped him. It was obvious he had not slept last night and the emotions of the last days were eating into his reserves of strength.

 _Sleep. I'll work from here today,_ Jim told him, his own mind-voice echoing with a yawn. _I don't want to leave you until I'm sure you're going to be okay._

 _There is no need for further concern,_ Spock advised. _But it is best if you do not . . . provoke . . . me in this manner again._

Kirk snorted, and then chuckled for a few minutes. "McCoy told me not to poke a stick at the wild Vulcan behind the bars. I think I've learned my lesson."

_Indeed?_

Kirk's mind voice was sober. _Yes. You know what I'm like, Spock. I don't believe an animal will bite me until it does._

_And I bit?_

Jim hesitated again, and then replied with a simple, _Yes,_ and said nothing more.

Before he slept, Spock took the time required to check the link between them, its pathways open and clear of any emotional blockage. The bond rested sturdy and strong between them, its blue and silver tendrils entwined more tightly than before, interweaving deeper and more intensely as he analyzed it. Its continued existence ensured, and the most important aspects of the last few days put into their respective files, Spock turned down his senses and was soon asleep.

McCoy wandered over to Jim and Spock's place around noon the next day. He wanted to check on one of his favorite patients. Kirk came to the door to admit him, looking physically the worse for a probably sleepless night, but young enough to be able to throw it off easier than the doctor.

"Hey, Bones," he greeted, casually dressed in some green pants and shirt that made him look about twenty and ready to go bar-hopping. "He's in bed, asleep."

"Something you look like you should be doing, Jim," McCoy grunted, then made his way into the bedroom alone.

His mediscanner whirred and gave off a nice, quiet _cheep_. Spock's vitals were back to normal, far better than the sky-high blood pressure he had last night, and the dumping of huge amounts of noradrenalin into his brain. His serotonin levels were still somewhat lower than McCoy would have liked, but a day or two of normal activity and they'd be on par with previous results. His acetylcholine levels were, as usual, completely off the chart for humans, and way above normal for Vulcans, but that was one of the reasons Spock had such a prodigious memory.

"Doctor." Spock's voice was its normal light baritone, but his pupils were small and sluggish.

"Didn't want to wake you," he said gently, brushing his hand along Spock's arm.

"It is of no matter."

"How do you feel?"

Analyzing his physical status, Spock murmured, "Better than I would have expected given the biochemical state the emotive stimuli caused."

McCoy chuckled. "Given that Jim flipped your temperature to bake, you mean."

Spock's sigh was answer enough. "Colorful, but in essence, true enough."

"Not to be at all flip, Spock, but you either prevent that situation from occurring again or I'll be speaking at your funeral."

The Vulcan did not move for a long moment. "Explain."

"Your brain is an extremely delicate mechanism, housed in a sturdy flesh casing. Chemical storms like the one you had can be acutely detrimental. In other words, they can kill you." McCoy put enough emphasis on the sentence to make his apprehension quite clear.

"I am appreciative of your concern. I will endeavor to refrain from such a response in future."

Spock-speak for 'okay.' "And how do you plan to do that?"

"I do not know. Jim is . . . his own type of storm, one I have never been able to forecast."

McCoy grunted. "I've mentioned to him that he might want to be more careful. It wouldn't take much for you to snap him like a bread stick."

The Vulcan didn't say anything for a long while, and McCoy thought he might have fallen back to sleep. Just as he was about to go, Spock murmured, "Did you know of his relationship with Christopher Pike?"

"Yes. I knew them both before and after it happened." He never lied to Spock. He may tease him until the Vulcan wanted to plant him head-first into a root garden, but he would never break his trust that way.

"I believe it must have occurred when Pike was serving at the Academy while the _Enterprise_ was being built."

"It did." His voice was non-judgmental and cool, inviting Spock to continue.

"Pike was . . . the first human I ever admired. He taught me a great deal about my own uniqueness, that the formerly derided mixture of human and Vulcan was not necessarily deficient."

McCoy could not imagine what it had to have been like for Spock as a young man, ostracized by his own people because he was different. And then along comes Pike, who wouldn't know bigotry if it got up and used his arm for a snack. No wonder Spock idolized him. "Understandable. I knew Chris pretty well and he was a hell of a man. But, Spock, can you seriously be jealous of a man who's essentially been poured into a medibed on wheels, needs a bodysuit to keep his skin from sloughing off, and lives in a constructed mindcamp that the Talosians have created for him?"

"I am not. I could not. But I do acknowledge that in that moment . . . I felt betrayed by the two humans who are uniquely significant to me. I am also well aware that my emotions with regard to my _th'y'la_ have never been of the calm variety."

McCoy understood Spock's reactions just a little bit better now. "True enough. And now, he knows it too."

"Indeed. I will rest further."

As a farewell, it worked well enough. McCoy stepped out into the living room, spying Jim concentrating on a comp padd at the table. "How is he?"

"Better then he should be, given he nearly blew the top of his head off last night."

Kirk swallowed, but didn't look away. He seemed incredibly young and apprehensive at this moment, so unlike his usual self that it alarmed McCoy. "Jim, let me just say this and I will climb down off my soap-box and go to one of my damned budget meetings. You've been around the block a time or three; Spock has had a few encounters. You know how to play all the games that a relationship brings up, but he never had to learn them, and he hasn't. He wouldn't play them even if he did. He loves you, from the top of your arrogant head to the soles of your callused feet. Don't fuck this up. You won't get a second chance."

He left before the other man had a chance to reply and as he descended in the elevator to street level he wondered how old O-Dia was and if she was involved with anyone.

 

 

After Bones' left, Jim tried to work, but his thoughts wouldn't settle. As he attended a strategy session via vidcomm, he stayed quiet and only offered data that Stearns required when he asked for it. The meeting went well, but the information that the Klingons were more restive than usual, encroaching in small raids across the border between the Empire and the Federation, lent a more grave tone to the proceedings. When only Stearns and Kirk were in the session at the end, he offered, "The _Constellation_ can be at the border in less than a day, sir. Captain Bennett is a seasoned captain. She won't shoot without orders unless she has to protect Federation assets on the outpost worlds."

Stearns sighed, but nodded. "Cut the orders, Kirk, for _Constellation_ and _Ranger._ "

"Aye, sir."

"You look a little green around the gills, Kirk. Shore duty too tough for you, is it?"

"No, sir."

"Spock's being OML until 0800 tomorrow have anything to do with it?"

"I chose to work from my apartment today, sir. I don't believe that is against regs for land-based administrative officers?"

The admiral grunted. "Don't make a habit of it."

"No, sir."

"Stearns out."

Jim released a sigh of relief. The man had a voice like a phaser set on 'kill.' He contacted the O.D. and sent through the orders for the two starships to make their way to the area of the incursions. Then he entered a specific program on his padd and cut the orders verbally again, to intersect at Ops with the computer system and leave an electronic record of the commands issued. Finally, a written request was created and mailed electronically, so that at any time, the O.D. would have the final command on the system in three ways, any of which should read exactly as the others. If they didn't, all sorts of aggravation ensued, the kind which would land Stearns on his back so fast he'd never even hear him coming.

He worked for a few more hours. When his stomach grumbled he pushed away from the table, and logged out, putting his comp padd into his briefcase for use later if he felt the need.

Walking into the still-light bedroom, he sat on the cool sheets and touched Spock's arm gently to wake him. "You should eat."

"I would prefer to have you here."

With a smile, Jim lay down next to Spock, spooned by his body. "Better?"

"Always."

The Vulcan moved back slightly, making room to press Jim onto his back, looking intently into his face. "Are you well, my _th'y'la_?"

Jim grinned, ready to give a charming lie that would have fooled anyone else. And then he remembered what McCoy had said that afternoon. The smile slid away from his face. "No. Not really."

Spock's lips brushed across his temple, and Jim believed the Vulcan knew that he was trying to be more open with him. "I can feel your worry."

"And you?"

"Oddly, I do not believe that what has happened is a dire occurrence, in entirety."

Jim stared at him, and blurted, "What?"

Spock's lips continued their gentle reconnaissance across his face, his nose, and finally, left a tingling kiss upon his lips before he answered. "While unpleasant, we have found a truth between us that we may not have grasped otherwise."

"Maybe I'd better call McCoy back—"

"Jim." Spock held him still and his eyes were dark and weary, but there was a life in them that Kirk could not remember having seen before. "I have lain here for hours, thinking, remembering. And of all the feelings I have known recently, the most unnerving was to be found in the belief that I had lost you irrevocably; that my needs had frightened or disgusted you. To realize that this is not the case is far more vital to my continued health than any of McCoy's potions could be."

Kirk felt the flush start at his chest and move upwards, until his face felt red and hot. "What you want—" He hesitated and began again. "What we want. . . ."

"Is it so very difficult to say?"

"It is. For me."

"Then you need not speak your desire. I will pleasure you in whatever manner you wish, whenever you want me."

"Now?"

Spock's tiny smile told him it was the right answer. "And how?"

 _It doesn't matter_ , Jim told him, easing even deeper against the pillows. _I just want you to make love to me._

_Then I will worship you as I wish._

Jim shivered and spread his arms away from his body, its tension spilling away. _I'm yours._

Jim's shirt was gently pulled over his head a moment later, the light from the window falling over his skin, painting it a pinkish-gold, reflected in Spock's eyes. He spread his legs so Spock could move between them, their pelvis' resting tightly against one another, the Vulcan's weight pinning him down. It both alarmed and aroused him, knowing that he would never be able to escape Spock unless he chose to let him go.

_You are mine. I am yours. We are one._

His cock obviously liked it, for it took the moment in stride, and began to lengthen. Spock's mouth continued to press small, butterfly-light kisses against his face, while his arms held the bulk of his weight up, their chests skimming, Jim's breaths coming more quickly.

His mouth was hungry for more kisses, and he turned his head, seeking the granite-carved mouth so close to his own. "Please," he whispered, and Spock gave him everything he asked for, their lips sealed together in a communion that went straight to his heart. They kissed for a long time, devouring, hungry devotions that demanded when they did not tease, sucked before they bit, and fed eager moans into consuming throats.

Spock rolled over onto his back, easily taking Jim with him, reaching down into his pants to grasp the globes of his butt. Leaking wildly, Kirk thrust, his cloth-covered cock stropping against Spock's, enjoying the friction too much to want to stop anytime soon. His interfering pants were pulled down and he shimmied around until they fell to his ankles and he could kick them away.

Realizing he was naked now as opposed to Spock's fully-dressed state caused another shot of adrenalin to fire through his body, from nape to tailbone. He gasped, as Spock's hands grasped his hips and pulled him down harder against his own cock, the fabric which covered him damp with desire. Jim groaned, his arms pushing up to add torque to his hips and moved slowly, increasing the friction between them, his toes digging into the bed to gain more traction.

Spock ran his fingers through Jim's hair, taking him by the neck and pulling his head down to nibble his lips and suck them into his mouth, before moving to taste his throat with a long, wet tongue, letting it rest over Kirk's wildly beating pulse, seeming to absorb its beat into himself. His teeth caught his earlobe, biting hard enough to make Jim leak further, and grind down, a surprised gasp escaping him.

His fingers abandoned Jim's hair, slowly sliding down his spine until they rested comfortably on the straining muscles of his butt. Spock trapped Jim's legs with his own, using his strength to keep him where he wanted him, and rolled again, keeping Jim beneath him. His own clothes were tossed aside, and Jim could smell the scent of Spock's desire all around him, permeating every air molecule, heating his skin with pheromones that felt like he'd been layered with exotic spices and left to burn.

"Please," he groaned, unashamedly begging now. He couldn't say the words aloud yet. _I want you so much . . . need you. .  . ._ His sac ached, his blood pounded through his body, chest vibrating wildly as he attempted to take in enough air not to lose consciousness. The touch of Spock's hot, silky skin was a further blow to whatever control he had left, and he writhed, fighting against Spock's enveloping arms and hands, wanting to plunge down and into the flesh nearest him.

But Spock wasn't done teasing him yet. With a little maneuvering and some brute strength, he pulled Jim up until he rested on the Vulcan's lap. The thick, fiery length of Spock's organ tapped against his butt cheeks, a not very subtle warning. For all his good intentions Jim squirmed and attempted to pull away, but one long arm held him tightly, while the other reached between them and stroked his cock. _You desire me here, th'y'la. You know you do._

Hot lips took his own fiercely, swallowing his fear, and insisted he comply. The brush of Spock's chest hair against his nipples tightened the nubs to tortuous points of sensation. His mouth moved down to take the left, rubbing against it with a roughened tongue. Jim moaned, leaning back, needing more, wanting more, until he was nothing but a mass of sensation, quivering nerve endings adding to the tension in his body until he sobbed, "Please."

He no longer cared that Spock's cock was centimeters from his hole, wasn't aware of anything but the feel of his mouth and teeth, now biting on the tender flesh and pulling, as talented hands worked his organ in a rhythm designed to bring him to the brink . . . and then Spock would change it, just when Jim was about to come, starting the climb over again until he wanted to scream.

 _Do you trust me?_ Spock asked, the words echoing deeply in the vaults of Kirk's mind. And more than the desire, he felt Spock's love, cascading over the link between them, more scalding than anything he could do to his body.

Once more Spock changed his rhythm, keeping Jim on the knife-edge of orgasm, his throat releasing a high-pitched whine in place of the words he could no longer find.

Long digits grasped his cheeks and gently pulled them apart, the snug head gliding into the valley between them, yielding a scorching fire in this most intimate of places. _Do you trust me?_ This time, Spock sent desire, a firestorm of need and passion so intense, he was caught by it, torn between the mind and body, uncertain which sensual exploration was more intense.

He couldn't tell which was driving him more wild: the hunger in Spock's mental voice, or the sensation of soft-hard velvet skin touching his rim, brushing past it, over and over again, until finding breath was an agony, and the little mouth opened in helpless pleasure.

 _Do you trust me?_ Spock's mental voice asked, sounding calm, cool, and willing to hold him on the edge forever if need be, but below that, so deep, so dark, Spock's possessive nature grasped his mind, his soul, as his hands had his body, whispering thought their bond, burning him to ash with its ferocity. _Mine_ , it warned, snarling its dominance, and then, only micro-seconds later pleaded, _Yours?_

 _Yes! Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes,_ Jim cried, his consciousness coming apart under Spock's determined onslaught of his soul and his senses. Instead of the expected pain, a long finger stroked quickly, carefully, just the tip of his finger sliding into the opening, the tight muscle clenching as he came, hard, so hard, shooting and shooting until his balls gave all they could, and he collapsed helplessly against Spock's chest, sobbing as hot fluid bathed him, leaving him wet and shaken in his arms.

The room spun around him as he was laid on the bed, exhausted and exhilarated at the same time. Spock fell heavily next to him, his entire body trembling in the aftermath and grasped Jim's hand tightly, as if still needing that connection of body on body. They lay there a long time, not speaking or moving, needing time to come down from the amazing feelings that even now, could not be expressed in words, the bond throbbing between them, its survival assured.

It took what felt like a long time before he was able to once more have a focused thought. His body tingled, his head pulsed, and he had never felt so peace in his life. Whenever he thought that this, with Spock, could never become better, it did. Trite sounding, he admitted to himself, but so very true.

When Jim could finally breathe without gasping, or move without the room spinning around him, he turned on his side and looked at Spock's profile before resting his head on one narrow shoulder, gratified and amazed. "Thank you," he whispered, his mouth depositing a kiss to the incredibly soft skin, absorbing the heat and spicy scent of his lover. _That was. . . ._ He found himself unable to express what it had meant to him, even now.

 _I believe the word you are looking for is, 'indescribable.'_ Spock's mind voice was deep and dark, rough with exhausted passion.

Kirk smiled, his body tired, his soul still singing. His voice came out in a hushed burst of sound. "Exactly. Why try to explain what can't be described?"

"Indeed. I require a shower, as do you."

"We require a clean _bed_ ," Jim admitted, turning slightly and stretching.

"After we eat."

"How can you even think of food? All I want to do is sleep!"

"We require sustenance to maintain sexual activity." Spock's tone was so prosaic that Jim laughed aloud, feeling young and free and . . . happy.

 


	7. Chapter 7

When Spock returned to the collegia the following day, he was disappointed that no one had been found to teach his classes. The faculty was overburdened, it was true, so he put the thought aside and sent assignments to his students regarding the chapters that they would have dealt with had he been present.  
Jim had returned to his office as well. No doubt Admiral Stearns had not been pleased that his DDO had been absent yesterday, but Jim had not mentioned any friction between them. Not that they spent a great deal of time talking last evening.  
He had also not mentioned if he had seen any visitations of the being who had pretended to be Mrs. Stearns. That situation was one which could not be ignored, though it appeared that Kirk was willing to do so. His reasons baffled the Vulcan, who could find no logic in ignoring such a state of affairs. Granted, there had been a number of issues which intervened. . . . They would discuss it this evening, he determined, and looked up as Jacob Aster knocked on his open door, followed by two other cadets.  
"Sir? Do you have time to see us?"  
"These are my scheduled office hours, Mr. Aster," he replied, and gestured for them to enter.  
The three filed in and he directed them to the table by the window.  
"How may I assist you?"  
What he had initially expected to be a relatively quick tutorial became more of a discussion of relevant techniques and ideas in each discipline. He learned that the three were freshmen, but more advanced then the average. They were all human, from Earth, and had been friends since grade school.  
Peter Winslow, a short, thin blond with a pair of old-fashioned glasses and a quick, shorthand manner of expressing his ideas, was a mathematician, and prior to entering the Academy, had already received a B.S. in statistics. His twin brother, Payton, required no assistance with his vision, but his shyness was an almost crippling disability. His dual degrees were in cosmology and astrophysics. And rounding out the group, seeming to be the center of the pyramid, was Aster.  
While they discussed varied themes and topics, Spock observed the dynamics of the group with interest. Peter was obviously the leader, his acerbic wit and aggressive intellect focused by Jacob's softer, insightful comments. He was impatient and brusque, sharp and quick, but stopped speaking whenever Payton essayed an opinion. That was rare, but Spock swiftly noted that Payton's acumen was easily several orders of magnitude greater than either of the other two. Apparently, Payton's aptitude was such that he became easily bored and would drift away on his own thoughts, returning to the conversation whenever a topic piqued his interest.  
The discussion soon turned to their assignments, and Spock returned to his desk while the others began work. He did not mind their remaining in his office; they were quiet, only speaking softly amongst themselves, and occasionally rising with a question or a different analysis than the one proposed in the textbook.  
The young men were exiting when Bader entered. The older professor's expression displayed a disagreeable set to his mouth, and his color was high. "Gentlemen," he said, moving aside with a smile as they departed. "So this is where the brain trust disappeared to."  
"I do not understand the reference," Spock told him, and gestured that he should take a seat.  
"The three of them," Bader said with a wan smile and a gesture. "Their nickname is "the brain trust," because they are the absolute best we've got this year. It wasn't easy to coax them to consider us. Without Rahne's name and charm, I think they probably would have gone to the VSA, and then on to whatever institute of research or higher learning that they wanted."  
"Payton would certainly have been accepted anywhere he chose."  
"Of that, I am sure. But he wouldn't consider a place without Aster and his brother. He made that quite clear to us."  
"Indeed." Dismissing the unusual trio from his mind, he asked, "You came to speak with me?"  
"There's been a complaint made against you, Spock," Bader told him, his face twisted in a discontented manner. "The complaint states that the professor believes you used 'mental persuasion techniques' to convince a cadet to change advisors."  
Spock's eyebrow climbed to his hairline. "And why would I do something so base?"  
"Ostensibly because you want to add your name to Aster's published papers." The older man raised a hand, and his disgust was palpable. "Don't think I believe a word of it. I know that it's the jealous xenophobic contingent hopping on the 'toss the Vulcan out' train. You hardly need Aster's papers, or the Winslow boys, either, for that matter. It's just an attempt to smirch your reputation."  
Spock could not have been more surprised if Bader had invited him to an old-fashioned book-burning ceremony (as was purported to be in the offing outside the library on Friday at midnight, as the first of many senior pranks.)  
"Rahne is furious, and wants me to put an end to this racial bias in whatever manner I have to, including the firing of the miscreants involved. But I have to do it right. There has to be a hearing and the forms and processes of the collegia have to be followed to the letter."  
"I hereby state that I have in no way exercised any form of persuasion upon Mr. Aster, or either of the Winslows."  
"I know that, Spock," Bader snapped, obviously extremely annoyed. "I knew it before Rahne explained about Vulcan integrity. But I have to follow our procedures so no one can say that we've been unduly influenced."  
Spock lowered his head in acknowledgement, annoyed and displeased by such a waste of their time. "I will do whatever you require of me, Bader, and know that I regret you're being placed in this difficult position."  
"You have no idea how embarrassed and shamed I am to have to do this, Spock," he said, his pewter gaze sad and frustrated. He stood up, looking his age for the first time since Spock had met him. "Please accept my sincere and genuine apology for this indignity."  
The Vulcan gave a soft sigh and rose, his hands coming to rest behind his back. "I am Vulcan. No one can disgrace me but myself. My dignity is in my control alone. Do not be concerned. I am aware of the strain of xenophobia within the Academy and have been since I was a cadet. If I can do anything to root it out, I will."  
Bader smiled. "I believe you."  
"That is wise. Vulcans rarely lie. It is illogical," he reminded in his most stoic Vulcan tone, icy and intractable.  
"You're insulted."  
Spock considered that. "In the unemotional definition of the Standard English word, I am. It is a waste of valuable time that we could be using to greater effect, but I am also aware of the lamentable political aspect of all educational systems."  
"That's too damned true, Spock. I'll keep you apprised, but I wouldn't worry much about it."  
"Vulcans do not 'worry,'" he said, returning to his seat and turning to his computer analysis of the new navigational arrays that were to be included within the Enterprise design. "It is an unprofitable application of one's intellect."  
Nevertheless, as Bader turned to go, his shoulders bowed, appearing tired and drained, he admitted that Vulcans did become concerned. He put that thought away and returned to his work.

 

Tired as he most certainly was, McCoy was undoubtedly enjoying teaching again. As he expected, under his more pro-active style Lees' former classes were becoming dynamically engaged in what he called "the real-life, down and dirties," the practical applications of what they were learning of xenobiology. There were four classes, and the only one where he had any difficulty was the last, where Dia was a student. For unfathomable reasons, he kept losing track of his thoughts whenever his eyes passed her intent face, staring at him with a mixture of concentration and humor.  
Today, after class, she came up to him, her cadet blue pantsuit flattering her curves, and highlighting the slim neck and glossy blue-black hair, held back with some kind of doo-dad, falling down her back to her hips and drawing the eyes to their gentle sway.  
She patiently waited while he dealt with other student's questions and comments and, when the last had finally gone, leaned a hip against his desk. Her dramatic gray eyes looked him over and she finally asked, "Are you sleeping at all?"  
He chortled, and started to pack his own bag with various discs and comp padds. "Why? Don't I look like I am?"  
"No," she said softly, intimately. "You look, doctor, like someone who's burning the candle at both ends, if you'll pardon the colloquialism."  
That made him smile. "Not all of us can appear as lovely as you do after an all-nighter, Dia."  
"I like the way you shorten my name," she told him, a tinkling sound emerging as she chuckled. "I like the way you smile. And laugh. And I think I'd like a lot more about you if you gave me the chance."  
As a come-on, it worked. His pants suddenly felt too small, and he really didn't want to move away from his desk, worried that his own uniform would be too snug to hide his response. McCoy cleared his throat twice before he could speak. "There is nothing I would like better . . . except you're my student, Dia, and I'm pretty certain that wouldn't be proper."  
"Get your graduate assistant to mark my papers and grade my final," she urged, one hand coming to rest on his arm. "That way, you're clear, at least from an ethical perspective."  
He swallowed, liking the idea too much to just drop it. "How about an early dinner?"  
Dia's smile was incandescent in reply and it would take a stronger man than him to ignore it. Leonard McCoy packed quickly, stuffing his things in willy-nilly, sensing a possible modification of the decision to be Earth-bound until Enterprise was back in space. As they walked together up and out of the hall, he could see a few reasons to stay on after that.

 

Kirk stood up from his office chair and walked the corridor down to Ops. Since his first foray, it had become a regular occurrence to find him here, observing the large overhead screens, viewing the scrolling status reports on the walls to the left and right, and listening to the shorthand conversations between the analysts. They interpreted ship actions regarding missions parameters, the skirmishes of various species, dogfights of the merchant shippers, as well as maintaining a constant data stream of astrophysical phenomena to forecast dangerous incidents that ships would want to avoid, which was subsequently downloaded to various departments of the Academy for review and research. They received intelligence from ships outside of the fleet too; those species within the Federation had found that it behooved them to keep Fleet aware of anything occurring within their particular sector, which meant that not as many Fleet ships were required to patrol.  
It was a high-pressure, intense, demanding location, the heart of Star Fleet, and Jim loved the energy of the place almost as much as his own bridge.  
The analysts had become accustomed to his presence, and unlike the apprehension that invaded the huge oval area whenever Stearns entered, they were more relaxed around him. The men and women talked about impending issues, asked advice in interpreting a particular ship's movements, and kept him in the loop regarding changes in orders. Jim was content that they had finally accepted him.  
At the moment, Kirk was looking for the class symbol and number of Constellation and Ranger. "Have we heard from Barrett yet?" he asked softly to the room at large.  
A brown, skeletally thin hand lifted, and Jim moved to that particular analyst, one of Nolan Feehan's young cadet-trainees on the fast track to a permanent position here. He was a young Tenebrian, as narrow as a sapling, with a bulbous head rising from a thin shoulder set with four long arms individually tapping on separate data pads. Jim couldn't help but admire his mental and physical dexterity; he wasn't even ambidextrous, and Areli was manipulating four differentially partitioned thought processes, separate input streams, and their subsequent data. "Captain Barnett states that she is on-site at the coordinates of the first incursion, admiral. She and Captain Burns of the Ranger will coordinate a grid search pattern to find the Klingon ship or ships."  
"Hmm. That far out on the border, we're probably getting their transmissions at least five hours behind?"  
"More like six, sir," Areli told him, his voice reed-soft, his eyes an opaque olive-green. "Sub-space squirts are relatively slow, admiral."  
Jim Kirk bit his lips at the time delay and knew once again that he hadn't been created for this kind of inactivity. Even now he wanted to jump onto his ship, hightail it out to the border and settle some Klingon hash and explain with a stick why it wasn't a good idea to attack a Federation outpost.  
Barrett didn’t send any other transmissions and he returned to his office, dissatisfied. He was surprised to find Nolan Feehan there, sitting in one of the chairs on the opposite side of his desk appearing comfortable and relaxed.  
The picture struck him as odd. Nolan was never that laid-back.  
"Hey, Nolan, what're you doing here?" Kirk asked, glancing at the chrono on his computer. "It's kind of early to show up for your duty shift, isn't it? Or did you want to go catch some dinner?"  
The man's sharp green eyes looked him over, but there was no sense of friendship there. Kirk was struck silent and fell nearly senseless into his own chair, legs numb, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, unable to speak. There was that same sense of obdurate power he had felt at the Stearns' home, and he shivered, apprehensive.  
"Do not fear, Admiral Kirk. I and my kind mean you no harm. We act only as messengers," Nolan's voice told him in stiff, formal Standard. It continued in a prophetic tone, "The threat comes. Your future arrives. Danger will rise up around you and obliterate all peace in this galaxy. Your world will be buffeted and torn after Star Fleet is destroyed, the Federation dismembered, if you do not stand fast. Remember who you are."  
He struggled to resist the pressure against him, making it impossible to move or call out for help. "I know you," he managed to say between clenched teeth, sweat popping out on his forehead as he fought, his body straining against the invisible bonds that held it. "I've felt this—"  
"Indeed. Our peoples have met previously, but I was not in this physical body. I merely clothe myself in this manner to facilitate our communication." The green eyes held an oddly translucent shimmer, as if the being itself were too bright to look on. "You must prepare," it told him solemnly. "We will be powerless in the conflagration to come."  
"How?" he blurted, but between one blink of his eyelashes and the next, the being who had masqueraded as both Mrs. Stearns and Nolan was gone. Seconds later, Kirk's body was released from its stasis. His heart slammed around in his chest and disturbed by this second strange visitation, he wondered what to do first.   
That wasn't any damned ghost, he told himself as he worked to get his alarm under control and make his hands stop shaking. By then, Spock was contacting him by comm.  
"Kirk here."  
"Jim? What is wrong?"  
Kirk blew out a breath, trying to get his nerves under wraps. "We need to talk to Stearns and Nogura," he said quietly.  
"Regarding?"  
"Remember the alien from Stearns' dinner party?" It was a manner of speech; Spock never forgot anything unless he wanted to.  
"It has re-appeared?"  
"Yes," he replied, rubbing a hand across his face. "With another warning. Get over here. I need some back-up if this fantasy is going to be believed."  
"On my way. Spock out." The Vulcan cut the connection and Jim settled back against his chair, wondering exactly what it all meant. As he reviewed the few sentences that the creature had said, Kirk tried to figure out what kind of a threat they were dealing with, but there was too little information.  
Less than ten minutes later, Spock was rounding the hall corridor and barreling into his office, one hand out to forestall Nils from intercepting him. His dark eyes were fierce and protective and his aura was sufficient to warn even the hardiest of security officers. Besides, there was only one Vulcan in Fleet, and Spock's face was as famous as his own. The thought made him smile, though there was nothing even remotely funny about this situation.  
"Admiral, are you well?"  
Jim gestured at him to stand down. "It didn't hurt me, Spock. Just shook me up, like the other night." He turned to his aide. "Nils, I want the images from the holo-sensors in my office for the past fifteen minutes. And I want them right now."  
The young lieutenant didn't question the order, though his violet eyes went wide at the intensity in his admiral's voice. He turned on his heel and abruptly moved to his desk to transact the computer request.  
"It's on your screen now, sir," Nils' voice called out a few moments later. Spock and Jim leaned over to view it, and saw what looked very much like Nolan Feehan walk towards Kirk's office in Ops and hesitate. The image became a bright light for a second or two, and then returned to the simulated analyst once more. It glanced up at the camera and then strode past Neely and into Kirk's office to take a seat.  
Spock backed up the recording several times, until he had found what he was looking for. "It is unlikely that Lt. Neely saw your visitor, admiral, even though it appeared to walk past him."  
Jim leaned over him to gaze at the picture on the screen. "What makes you say that?"  
"He did not attempt to intercept him, as he did me," Spock told him dryly, and Jim knew he was going to be hearing about that for some time, "and he didn't look up as the alien went past."  
Jim frowned; he didn't like the idea of anyone wandering around the halls of Fleet Central without being noticed.  
"But if you note the screen again, admiral," Spock requested, gesturing, then manipulating the picture to a close-up of the alien, "I believe this will explain your familiarity."  
Instead of the image of Feehan he expected, there was the blinding flash of light and energy that Kirk had become too personally familiar with on a planet in the second year of their five-year mission.  
His visitor was nothing less than one of the most powerful life forms that the Enterprise had ever encountered. A seemingly formless, fleshless entity composed entirely of energy, a creature that both the Klingon Empire and Star Fleet feared, the immortals known as Organians, or more formally, The Organian Hierarchy.  
Kirk looked at Spock, dumbstruck. "If they're warning us. . . ."  
"Then we are in very grave danger, indeed."

 

Spock stood by Jim's side in Admiral Stearns' office, listening as Jim explained what had occurred in both the admiral's home, and just now in his office. Admiral Nogura, the Commander-in-Chief of Star Fleet Command was on the line, listening in.  
When Kirk had finished, Stearns glared at him, and asked, "Did you have a liquid lunch, Kirk?"  
Jim frowned. "No, sir, I didn't. The proof is on the tape of the corridor outside my office. I have a copy right here."  
Spock moved to Stearns' computer and swiftly uploaded the file, so that he would be able to view it, simultaneously patching it through to Nogura. He set the holo to freeze when the Organian showed its true form.  
Nogura gave a swift gasp when he saw it, and even Stearns sat back in his heavy chair, rocking slightly, his lips pursed.  
"What did it say again, Jim?" Hideo Nogura asked, his face nearly impassive, but the faint frown line between his brows showed Spock that he was not as sanguine as he appeared.  
"It was warning me . . . us, that something big and bad was coming. That it could destroy Earth, the Fleet and the Federation if we don't 'stand fast.' That we 'must remember who we are.'"  
"Damned Organians," Stearns growled, slamming a hand onto his desk in expressed frustration. "Never just come out and say something. Have to play their games."  
"The Organians have never warned us about anything before. They don't even bother to make themselves known if a Fleet ship bypasses their sector of space anymore. Jim, are they serious?"  
"Oh, yes, sir. I'd say so," Jim replied, his expression obviously concerned. "They didn't talk to me just the once. They showed up at the admiral's party too, though in the guise of his grandmother."  
"And you didn't think that was sufficient to tell me about, Kirk?" Stearns snarled. "Just thought you'd keep it to yourself?"  
"What would you have said, admiral, if I'd mentioned that someone who looked like your long-dead grandmother showed up in your house and warned me that you were going to be difficult to deal with? That you'd gone through a hell of a lot of deputies and still hadn't found the one you wanted to succeed you? That this entity thought that I'd make a good fit? Do you believe you would have listened to that with any more credibility than you have today?" Jim argued, his own temper less than cool.  
Stearns glowered at him and then turned away. "I would have made sure you were put on medical leave, Kirk, that's what I would have done."  
"Hmm. And you would have been wrong," Nogura muttered, his thoughts obviously on the actions of the Organians and what they could mean. "Jim, I want a report detailing exactly what the Organian said to you. I want Spock to check your memory and make certain that it is as accurate as possible."  
"Then what, sir?"  
Nogura gave him a sour look. "It would appear that the Organians only want to talk with you, Jim. I'd send you there if I thought there was a hope in hell of them giving us more information, but they have gone to the extreme of hiding their planet from our sensors. SSO says the Klingons are wondering where the devil it went too, and how they managed to hide an entire planet."  
"There has to be some way to reach them, sir," Jim said. "Subspace to the planetary coordinates, perhaps?"  
"And if these 'visitations' are not the work of the entire Organian council, but only a few?" Spock asked. "We would be exposing their aid. Ayelbourne, if you will remember, was quite clear that both the Federation and the Empire were too violent for Organia to want any further dealings in future. Just contact with us was apparently sufficient for them to terminate any possible interaction."  
Stearns nodded and pointed a finger at Jim. "He has a good point, Hideo. We did go to war on their planet, thanks to Kirk here."  
"That's sufficient, Admiral," Nogura snapped. "We have a problem. Ideas or suggestions of how we deal with it would be welcome. Sniping, however, is not."  
"How do we know these beings are actually Organians?" Spock asked softly. "That they appear to be is indisputable, but there is no valid argument to credit such actions to them alone."  
Nogura hesitated, then leaned forward, his face looming into the screen. "Jim, the first time you met with the woman . . . do you remember what she said about the Fleet?"  
Kirk nodded, and looked up to the ceiling for a moment, apparently checking his memory for the exact words. "She said: 'For without Star Fleet, the Federation cannot stand.'"  
The senior officer's face lost color and he stated, "It's them." He cursed softly in a language Spock was not familiar with and continued, "I have every reason to believe that this alien is an Organian, per previous communications that the Federation had with them a few years ago. It was only once and quite to the point from what the President of the Federation told me at that time. The quote was very similar to what Jim had just repeated, if not exactly the same."  
Stearns grunted, and his frown drew his heavy brows down further over dark, tired eyes. "'To turn away is not glorious, but very healthy,' is something my people have said for centuries. And Russians know about wars. I say we avoid whatever is heading our way, Hideo."  
"And if we can't?" Kirk asked softly.  
"Then we fight. You remember how to do that, don't you, Admiral Kirk?" the older man asked, but for once there was no rancor in his tone.  
"I do, sir. I took an oath to protect the Federation with my life and I won't be forsworn."  
Nogura nodded. "Indeed. Let me know if you have any more visits, Jim. And get me that transcript. If I have to prepare for Armageddon, I'll need evidence that arrangements should to be made in the first place."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Thanks, Jim, Steve, Spock. I appreciate your rapid response."  
As Nogura signed off, Stearns stood up and looked at them both, his face for the first time appearing old and worn. "What does your gut tell you, Kirk?"  
Jim pursed his lips. "That they're scared. If it's war, then they can't interfere outside of their sector because violence makes them ill, though how that occurs, I couldn't actually tell you. If it's some sort of galactic anomaly, they may be just as powerless. But if that's the case, why tell me? I don’t have any greater ability to prevent it than anyone else." Jim sighed. "The impression I get is that they're really worried about whatever it is. And that they believe that if we're not warned, this whole galaxy is going to be destroyed, taking them along with us."  
"The emotions that this being transmitted . . ." Spock added, "amounted to terror. The admiral felt it and believed it was his own fear. But now, I am uncertain if this is the case. It may be the Organian's own alarm he is sensing."  
"Great. What scares an Organian? I'll tell you. Not much," Admiral Stearns said with a grimace. "All right. Go write your report and get it off to Hideo." He made an abrupt gesture and the two men filed out to head into Kirk's office. Between the two of them, they made short work of transcribing the exact occurrences of the Organian incursion into Federation space over the next hour before shooting that off to Nogura and Stearns.  
"You know, Spock," Jim said, as they were leaving Operations that evening. "I think you may be right about them. They're scared."  
"That is not a pleasant concept, Jim."  
"That's an understatement. What's worse is they think that I can fix it."  
It would not do for Kirk to become too worried about a situation he could do little to change. A distraction was in order. "Then we are, indeed, in jeopardy."  
For a moment, Kirk kept walking into the corridor outside of his office. Then he stopped dead, the green-gold gaze caught Spock's, and a smile twisted the lovely lips. "It’s a fine time to develop a sense of humor," Kirk said, deliberately leaning quickly into him and then away as they walked down the hall towards the elevator that would take them to the ground floor of Fleet Central.  
"I am a Vulcan," he insisted, "not a clown."  
His tone, reminiscent of McCoy's oft-lamented complaint, caused Kirk to trip over a step and begin to laugh.  
Satisfied that his mate would be sufficiently relaxed to eat a meal and enjoy his evening, Spock followed him to their apartment, concern at the situation never far from his thoughts.


	8. Chapter 8

McCoy lay flat on his back in his bed around six the next morning and stared at the ceiling, wondering if it was going to give him any answers this time. The swirls of paint and plaster didn't respond to any of his current crop of questions and errant thoughts, but then, it rarely did.

A warm, lithe, femininely curved body lay trustingly beneath his left arm, her silky skin adding a sensual glow to that side of his torso as she moved slightly in her sleep. Dia's hair was covering them both, its strands sliding softly, tickling lightly as they moved on his skin.

What had started as a dinner between two people who wanted to be friends, had swiftly become dessert, then a walk around the shops near the Collegium, on to a coffee shop where they'd talked and laughed about so many topics that were of interest to them both that McCoy was still smiling about it, to a bar that Dia suggested . . . and then back to McCoy's apartment because it was closer than hers.

He thought about what had happened then, and the smile became wider, parts of his body waking up with the memory.

He'd been in the small kitchenette, making coffee in his antique brew pot when he'd felt Dia's hand on his arm.

"Len, will you please stop being such a gentleman?" she'd said, her voice plaintive, containing a strand of impatience.

For a second he just looked at her, his consciousness not quite understanding what she meant. As she insinuated herself into his arms and placed his hands on her hips, understanding struck him with all the subtlety of an old-fashioned runaway freight train.

That first kiss had been sweet, so sweet. It had been a long time since he had touched a woman he cared about, rather than one there for only a few hours of horizontal mambo after a few too many drinks. He had reveled in her joyous passion, the perfect, ripe body, her generosity of spirit in evidence here as in everything else she did.

He had been hesitant at first, his mind worrying about all sorts of things: her youth, her status as a student, a junior doctor at the hospital. . . . "Stop it," she'd said, her beautiful eyes seeming the glow in the dim light of the apartment. "There's only you and me here. And I want you. I have since the first moment I saw you striding across the campus, talking with three or four other men and laughing. You didn't see me, but even from where I stood, you were handsome, your eyes like bits of the sky that reminded me of home."

He gaped at her and gave a ridiculously wide smile. "You're a poet, Dia."

She chuckled, and pressed her breasts into his chest, the nipples hard little points of fire against him. "What I am is a woman hungry for you. What are you going to do about it?"

He shut her up with a kiss, which quickly turned into a blaze of heat and lust, desire teasing like a too-tempting sweet, one he could not deny or resist taking. She was just as fervent, anticipating his needs moments before he would have voiced them, a lover who read his thoughts, the thirsts he'd submerged for so long, releasing him to play as he would, her skin his canvas, her body his masterpiece.

And though it was the morning after, with only a few hours sleep following a demanding day, he felt delightfully alive.

"I can hear you thinking," she murmured, moving closer to him, one hand sliding down the bedding to stroke his thigh. "Do we need to go just yet?"

"As far as I'm concerned we can stay here all day," he told her, rolling over and nuzzling her throat with his lips, pushing aside her hair with his fingers to caress her breasts, her waist, and lower, to the hot, secret place he'd become intimately familiar with the night before. . . .

"Then let's not waste time," she told him throatily, and pulled his head down for a deep, devouring kiss that woke whatever portion of his body that had dared to sleep. There wasn't going to be any rest in this bed for some time if he had his way. . . .

 

 

Kirk hadn't slept well the night before, his dreams turning into nightmares: the Fleet destroyed through unsound strategies in battles with unseen foes, the burning of Earth, Vulcan, the death of Spock, McCoy, his family and staff, his entire race.

Spock had woken him several times, but Kirk had finally just gotten up in the wee hours, deciding that it made no sense to keep Spock awake with his thrashing around.

He and Bones had made plans to meet for lunch at an Italian place near the hospital. He was a few minutes early, and sat down in one of the booths to wait. There were a number of Fleet hospital uniforms around so Kirk thought it likely that this was one of the local restaurants that catered to the staff and their irregular hours. He nodded at a few people who saluted, and otherwise attempted to keep his head down, still dealing with the remnants of the celebrity status that the _Enterprise_ 's return had foisted off on her crew.

Kirk was facing the front door when McCoy _bounced_ in, his expression so cheerful he just stared at him, before a pleased smile at his friend's obvious happiness spread across his mouth. "Well, doctor, that's quite a Cheshire grin you're sporting," he said when Bones had gotten close enough to hear him. His white uniform with blue caduceus appeared bold amidst the mostly sky or dark blue blouses. It was the first time he'd seen him in his Medical Operations uniform; while McCoy was ostensibly a doctor in title, his rank was that of commander and Kirk had no doubt he was going to be bumped up soon to captain. Not that he'd ever use the rank designation, but it would add clout if he needed it.

"Admiral, sir," Bones said facetiously and with a bright twinkle in his eye. "Isn't it a fine day?"

Glancing out the window at the overcast gray skies, Jim just nodded. "If you say so, doctor."

Jim took a few minutes to look over the menu. "Spaghetti carbonara," he decided, "and New York cheesecake."

Bones gave him a decided jaundiced eye. "I don't think so."

Kirk did his best not to look offended but his petulantly voiced, "My weight's all right," soured his efforts.

"And we want it to stay that way, don't we?" McCoy warned. "Pasta primavera, and if you're good, maybe you can have the balsamic strawberries with ricotta cream for dessert."

"Did you invite me here so you could starve me?" he groused softly, tempted to reach into the bread basket, but knowing Bones wouldn't hesitate to slap his hand like some kid.

"No. I wanted to find out how things were going without your shadow with the pointed ears listening in," McCoy said, his mood still light and cheerful.

"We're okay, Bones," Jim said, relaxing slightly. He hated it when McCoy lectured him, and since his terse declaration of the other night, the doctor's sharp words had been on his mind. "Neither one of us is made of glass, after all. We just have to look out for the land mines, and do our best to avoid them."

"And?"

Jim looked into his water glass. "And . . . be careful with each other."

"Exactly."

"So what has you looking so chipper, Bones? A new scalpel get shipped for you to practice with?"

McCoy gave him a droll glance, before turning to the advancing wait person and making his selection. Jim didn't argue when Bones ordered for him as well, though the young male kept glancing at him the entire time, and barely realized McCoy was speaking.

"No, not a new scalpel. I'm . . . seeing someone."

Jim smiled. "This someone have a name?"

"Her name is O-Dia, and she's a resident at the hospital. She's in one of my classes. We went out to dinner last night."

Kirk straightened his napkin to neatness and did his best not to laugh. "Bones, I couldn't wipe that smirk off your face with an ion storm, so I doubt that dinner was the only thing on the menu." He raised his hand. "But I'm a gentleman; I won't pry."

"At least I don't have to worry that she'll forget all about me once she meets you!" Bones teased. "You're off the market, not that the waiter wouldn't try if you gave him a chance."

Jim shook his head. "I noticed, but it's—it's hard to explain, Bones. I just don't see people the same way anymore. I'm not interested in them for sex, I mean. It's just _him_."

The doctor nodded. "I can see that. Did you even notice that incredibly beautiful Nigelian woman over by the bar? The one with the long, long legs, skin black as night, and stacked like a bookshelf?"

Kirk didn't even bother to look over to check her out. "Can't say I did. Want me to leave so you can make an impression?"

Bones glared at him. "No. I'm quite happy with Dia."

"Well, good, then. I mean that, Bones. It's good to see you looking like life agrees with you."

McCoy sipped his water. "Don't get me wrong: It could go south faster than a knife fight on a teleport pad, but for now, I'm happy. Will she want to stay with a forty-something man working all the hours god gave him? Is it even something more than a fling? Who knows? But I'll take the bliss while I can have it."

Kirk raised his glass in salute. "To happiness."

Lunch went by too quickly. They decided to go visit Spock on campus to see his office and "cause a little trouble," as McCoy put it.

While Jim was entitled to his own Fleet driver and aircar, he preferred to walk around the city unless his destination was outside of the ultrafast elevated tram service that surrounded the entire Fleet complex. He and Bones managed to get to the Math collegia without any difficulty, and wandered up to the space where the directory told them Spock's office was located.

The place was thick with cadets, male and female, and both men did their best to ignore the stares and whispers of the young students; evidently it was a rare event for a senior Fleet officer to be seen at the Collegium. Jim did his best to ignore the various reactions of the startled cadets; he didn't remember ever becoming so starstruck by anyone, but that could have been because he had worked so hard to be the perfect cadet or that there hadn't been any celebrities roaming around then.

Spock's door was open and there was a buzz of excited talk, and people striding purposefully in and out. It wasn't until he was able to enter that realized why.

The place was wrecked. In place of Spock's usual near-sterile work space was a mess of fractured computer components and broken furniture; his picture window had been obliterated, with only small shards of broken safety glass lying on the floor and a fierce breeze sweeping through the remains.

"Spock?" he called out, worried that his mate would look the same way. He knew that he would have felt any type of physical pain if he had been attacked, but still. . . .

"I am here, Admiral," Spock replied, rising from a kneeling position behind what had once been a table and had been reduced to a pile of splinters.

Ignoring the other people, he walked to Spock, his gaze on him alone, assessing his lover. "What happened here? A cadet didn't like his assignment?" He attempted to be cool about it, but the frown on Spock's handsome face warned him that he wasn't going to like the answer.

"I returned from my work at the astrophysics laboratory to find _this_ ," he said, gesturing at the destruction, his tone sharp, crisp. "It would appear that a resonance bomb was tossed onto the desk chair and subsequently detonated." The long hands curled and sat fisted on Spock's hips, a physical sign that Spock was not as calm as he appeared. Whoever had done this was going to be in very hot water when the Vulcan found them.

"Spock?" An older woman stepped into the room, her expression livid, having obviously been running to get here.

"Dr. Esira," he said softly, and moved past Kirk to meet her, preventing her from walking deeper into the devastation. While she wasn't attractive, Kirk was immediately struck by her aura of power and intellect. "I am well. There is no cause for alarm."

Another man moved swiftly from behind her, his squat body trembling with rage. "By the _Gods_!" he snarled. "Those bastards!"

"Calm yourself, Bader," the woman directed, one hand coming to rest on the man's forearm. "Spock is unharmed; that is what matters."

The door had been removed from its hinges by the explosion or Jim would have closed it to give the group greater privacy. Instead, he swiftly turned, directed three of the cadets who were milling about to provide a physical barrier to prying onlookers, and moved to speak with the lone security agent who was present.

"Analysis," he snapped to the man, who looked lazily up from his comp padd and then sprang to immediate attention.

"Yes, sir. It would appear that a resonance bomb was detonated at approximately 1400 hours today from that chair. It wasn't particularly powerful, though it did do significant damage to the furnishings. There is no evidence that the perpetrators intended to harm the captain, since the detonation occurred when he was not in residence. The department chair, Dr. Bader Turlofsky," he pointed at the agitated man still walking in circles within the blast area, "has confided that Captain Spock had been the recipient of considerable professional enmity by some staff members, including a trio of complaints concerning a possible rather scandalous breach of ethics regarding a student."

Kirk's eyes narrowed. "Continue," he said, aware of McCoy listening quietly by his shoulder.

"I've requested a criminal evidence unit to gather what they can. I expect them within thirty minutes."

"Was Captain Spock supposed to be in his office at 1400?" McCoy asked, beating Kirk to it. Jim gave him a slight smile. McCoy was pissed, too; his body language stiff with fury. Sure, he'd give Spock hell, but damned if anyone else could, and as for injuring him. . . .

"From what I have ascertained from the captain himself, he could have been, if his experiment had not taken longer than expected. However, it was unlikely that anyone who wanted to remain unknown would take the chance of tossing a bomb in his office if had been here."

Jim bit his lip. " _If_ he'd been in here, he may or may not have had a chance to get out before it blew. That type of situation doesn't lead me to believe that this attack wasn't directed at Spock himself." He didn't like it. There were too many variables in the Vulcan's schedule for anyone to know _for sure_ that Spock would be in his office or not unless they were watching him.

"Thank you," he said, and turned back to Spock and his group. Grasping his arm he noted the fine tremors that gripped the Vulcan, and looked at his face. Though not visible to anyone else but McCoy, Kirk could see that Spock was working to fight off the emotions that attempted to grip him.

Dr. Turlofsky was just saying, ". . . your classroom wasn't damaged, so you can continue to teach tomorrow."

The woman continued, "And of course you will require a security escort—"

"That will not be necessary, Dr. Esira," the Vulcan said, his tone more of a hiss than its usual mellow timbre. "I am quite capable of protecting myself, should that become necessary."

Jim quietly introduced himself and McCoy. "Given what's happened here, a more thorough security evaluation of the collegia should be considered," he said softly to both educators. "And these . . . ethics complaints should also be given greater weight."

"I hardly think that is in order, Admiral Kirk," Dr. Esira told him, her gaze pinning him as if he were a lower order of insect rather than a man. "Our procedures are quite satisfactory—"

"Obviously not, ma'am" McCoy cut in sharply, and then with a genial smile continued, "Anyone willing to consider a Vulcan and an ethical question in the same breath needs to have their head examined and then interrogated by the SF/CIS. Especially given the level of violence displayed here."

"But Spock wasn't injured—" she continued.

"This time," Kirk interjected, straightening his shoulders and putting a tone of command into his voice. "I want to know who did this, and I want to know _now_ , Dr. Esira, before they succeed in whatever it is they intended to achieve from this act. I don't know whether they wanted attention brought to these complaints, to the apparently unwanted Vulcan in their midst, or to remove him permanently. And none of those options are acceptable to me. Or, I should think, you." He ended with a smile, in the hope that charm might aid him in his goal.

She sniffed politely, but agreed. "You are, of course, correct, admiral. None of those options are acceptable. It has taken me years to develop the Academy science departments to the level where they could compete with other top institutions. I won't have all that work brought down by the intransigent, primitive, racist attitude of a few agitators."

"Then we are in agreement. Any aid you require, please do not hesitate to contact me."

She nodded and swept out, Turlofsky behind her, wringing his hands in continued agitation. Leaving the security officer and the incoming CE unit to gather what clues they could, the three men left the room behind and walked outside, to the grassy quad in the center of the buildings that sheltered it. The sky was still overcast, but there had been no rain. McCoy excused himself, but Kirk knew he'd be hearing from their friend sooner than later.

"Walk with me?" Jim asked softly.

Spock nodded and they began to walk west, toward Fleet Central.

"Ethics violation?" he prompted.

"It is of no consequence."

Translation: I don't want to talk about it now.

Jim didn't press him. Spock was upset and it would wait until they had quiet time tonight to discuss it. They walked in an amicable silence the rest of the way, and then split apart, Spock to their apartment, Jim, to his office.

 

 

As Jim entered the apartment that night, he locked the door behind him, dropped his case where he could easily find it the next morning, and decided that an evening with Spock would be just what his doctor would have ordered for the both of them. There had been too many issues hitting them both lately. A quiet night would be perfect.

The rooms were dark, with only one lamp on in the tiny living room to light his way. _Spock must be meditating_ , he thought to himself, and wandered into their bedroom quietly, not wanting to disturb him.

By the time he had showered and changed into some more comfortable clothes, Spock had completed his evening ritual and was sitting at the computer desk, reviewing his mail. Jim came up beside him and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder, surprised when Spock almost flinched and moved infinitesimally away from him.

 _What the. . .?_ he asked himself. "Did you eat?" he asked.

"I am not hungry at this time. I prefer to work."

Jim grimaced lightly, wondering just what had gotten stuck in Spock's craw _now_. "As you wish," he said and went away to make himself a light dinner. He had little interest in any more work, already feeling like his eyes were going to fall out of his head, so instead of pulling out a book, or turning on the vidfeed, he crawled into their bed and ordered the apartment computer to play a mix of various music that he usually enjoyed.

As strains of Darling Violetta's cello began _The Sanctuary_ , it was followed by a mix of soft, blues jazz in the style of Chuck Mangione and Sharna, and then on to a few classical pieces that he particularly liked when he was trying to relax, like Tchaikovsky's Piano Recital No. 1, and the Beethoven Concerto No.1, before it returned to soft romantic music by Kenny G., Buble, and Claxton Pegg.

Comfortably settled, he lay back and attempted to relax and regroup.

As he expected, his quiet presence soothed the tense body at the other end of the room. The cramped lines of tension on Spock's face began to smooth out, and the stiff spine to loosen. It didn't take long for his Vulcan to rise to take his evening shower. He returned to the computer for only a few minutes, downloading something to a disc, before shutting the terminal down. He lowered the lights and lay quietly down at Jim's side, the music still playing softly in the background.

He felt Spock's head come to rest on his shoulder, and didn't move, remaining soft and calm, waiting for whatever he wanted to say to come. It took a while, but Kirk was in no hurry.

"I have known this unreasoning hatred before," his mild voice finally broke unto the quiet. "During my youth, I was ostracized by others of my kind, for my differences, for my human mother and what she made me in their eyes. But it was not until I attended the Academy that I truly experienced the utter revulsion, the odium, that some races hold for any alien in their midst."

Jim sighed and lifted an arm around Spock's shoulder to hold him closer and stroke his hair.

"Psychological study reminds me that racism is a mental or social disease caused by fear, jealousy, or inadequacy. Logic dictates that none of these issues are caused by my person, only my existence. The actions of racists cause destruction to any society they infect; even my own is obviously not without its difficulties with the concept. And I am aware that whoever is at fault today could not possibly know that if they had succeeded and I had died from the injuries inflicted, there was a chance that you would join me."

That hadn't even occurred to Kirk, he'd been so worried about Spock being attacked.

"Yet, though I have analyzed and studied the concept, I am still at a loss as to how one could embrace such a corroding emotion so completely. Even when S'y'lar had nearly killed you, I could not profess to own the type of hatred that these beings conduct and market so indiscriminately."

Jim's lips brushed the shining cap of dark hair. "On your worst day, Spock, you are still so far above what pitiful remnants of humanity they believe they possess that it would be like their reaching for the stars themselves. It's worthless to try and understand the most base and corrupting power our people have ever known. All we can do is punish the guilty and prevent their influence from spreading."

 _I am glad you were there today. I was stunned by the incident,_ Spock thought to him.

_Just wait 'til we find them. Then they'll be some stunning done._

He felt Spock's lips lift in a light smile against his skin. _I'm looking forward to that._

_Me, too._

They slept, fatigue overcoming them both as the music continued to play around them.

 

 

Their lives became ever busier.

After they had sent the report on the Organian situation to Admiral Nogura, they had waited for another notification, but none had been received by Kirk in the ensuing weeks. Yet Nogura was pressing quietly forward on greater reinvestment and building of new starships and heavy cruisers; only those who could see the entire picture were able to follow how crafty he was being, how careful that the buildup was not seen as what it was: a possible prelude to war. Spock could only wonder at the extent of the budget allocations that had to be made in order to provide for this situation. He wondered if the arguably more aggressive Terrans who made up much of the command ranks had been planning such a position . . . and then discarded it as being ignoble. Still, with Klingons, it was a wise man who prepared well and early.

As a result of the changing Fleet footing, Kirk had become far more involved in the strategy required to make the Fleet appear ever more powerful. The Klingon incursion had been rebuffed; only one of the two ships had been allowed to return and report on the intensity of the response to their brazen ignorance of the current treaty that forbid their entry into Federation-held space. But the fight that the Klingon vessels had instigated, as related by Captain Barnett, was sufficient to warn the Operations administration officers that it was less a test of their guard then an outright attack. Twenty crew-members had died between _Constitution_ and _Ranger_.

Jim had also mentioned a larger cadet-recruiting drive that would be beginning soon. The new ships would need an increasingly larger complement of qualified officers and crew; nevertheless, this concentration on the _accoutrements_ of war was most disturbing.

While Spock's office was being reconstructed and the instigators investigated, he chose not to share space with any of his departmental chiefs or alternatively, cause another faculty member to be shunted from their desks or, share limited availability with them. Instead, he had taken up residence in one of the quieter wings of the main science library, and usually held student meetings in a circular work area there. The "brain trust," as Bader named the group of three cadets, had consistently arrived to work with him on a near-daily basis.

"Payton," he began, knowing his tone was acidic, but unable to prevent it, considering the stubbornness of the youth's stance. "I am at a loss how you expect the current formulation of the standard cosmological model to aid you in your research without considering dark energy. As you must know, the universe started with the so-called Big Bang about fourteen billion years ago. During an early epoch of accelerated superluminal expansion, called inflation, a region of microscopic size stretched to a scale much larger than the visible Universe and our local geometry became flat. At the same time, quantum mechanical fluctuations of the vacuum generated primordial density fluctuations in the matter distribution. Gravity enhanced these inhomogeneities, seeding the formation of present-day structure. The mass density of ordinary, also known as baryonic, matter makes up only a fifth of the matter that led to the emergence of structure. The rest is in the form of an unknown dark matter component. Recently, the universe entered a new phase of accelerated expansion due to the dominance of some dark vacuum energy density over the ever-lower matter density. This "dark energy" accounts for more than seventy percent of the mass-energy density of the universe. Yet you have not considered that into your equations at all."

The young man glared at him. "That's because I don't believe in the phenomenon, sir. It just a postulation; there's no evidence yet. Therefore, I will not include it, and continue to look for other possible causes for the energy density over the lower matter density. These calculations. . . ." Payton continued, his own tone less than civil, but that never bothered Spock.

Yet today, he wanted to smack him until his nose bled.

He blinked and straightened his spine with a snap. _Control, Spock!_ He told himself, alarmed at the sudden violent thought. Granted, he occasionally wanted to toss his cadets out of a window, but he was very well aware that he would not, could not, and that such brutality would not help their ability to learn complex concepts.

He softened his voice. "That is, of course, your choice, Mr. Winslow. I would be interested to see how you mathematically rectify the discrepancy between energy and matter density."

Winslow's face began to lose some of its hectic flush, and he turned back to his work with less abrupt movements. Jacob's eyes caught his and the worried expression in the handsome blue orbs disturbed him.

His voice was low. "Are you . . . all right, sir?"

Spock nodded, working to bring his suddenly rioting emotions under control. "Perfectly well, Jacob," he assured softly. He gestured for him to continue with his studying.

Settling at a table not far from the young men, he analyzed his physiological status swiftly.

 _No_ , he thought, near-panicked. _No. It can not be now._

He inspected his mental shields and lifted his chin. _I am Vulcan. I will not yield to this. I will control._

 

 

Kirk sat at his desk and mentally checked items off of his 'to do' list. Nils sat across from him, quickly transcribing his orders and reviewing his schedule. It was only around 1200 hours, but he felt tired, cranky and hungry, in that order.

He had intended to meet with Commander Scott and view some new ships' specs with Spock when a call came in on the comm. Seeing that it was Scott, he opened the line with a smile. "Hey, Scotty, how's my favorite miracle worker?"

"Er, Admiral, sir, I think you might want to get down here."

Scott's voice was alarmed, his Scots burr pronounced, and there were crashing sounds around him. A few disturbed cries followed and then the banging of collision doors sealing shut.

"What's going on, Scott?" Kirk asked, rising from his chair.

"Mr. Spock's somewhat . . . perturbed with the science department specs that we haven't quite gotten around to discussing with him yet."

"Perturbed?" Jim asked, not quite understanding.

"Aye, sir. The proposed model is in bits and pieces and considering it was made of duranium—"

Kirk got the picture almost immediately. Spock had been behaving oddly for a few days now: his appetite was off, and he was almost irritable—

All the color left his face and he sat down before he fell into his chair; there was only one issue that would make Spock behave like a student on spring break, and the idea caused his heart to thump in his chest in half-terror, half-anticipation.

 _Spock,_ he called, his tone insisting.

What he received was a hot stream of non-verbal aggravation that raised the hair on the back of his neck.

"Spock," Jim snapped over the comm. "Stand down. That's an order, mister."

The crashing sounds trickled to an end, and the engineer came back on. "Aye, that's done it, sir."

"Spock," he continued, "go home. Nowhere else. Just home. Do you understand?'

"I am not an idiot, Admiral," Spock snarled and Kirk wondered how this could have come upon them this fast with so little warning.

"I know," he soothed. "Just . . . don't make any stops. Mr. Scott will accompany you."

"I don't require—"

"You will perform as ordered, Captain Spock," Jim demanded, his tone one of implacable command. "Return to quarters, immediately. Will you comply?"

"On my way. Spock out."

Jim released a heavy breath. He knew a little too well just how dangerous the _pon farr_ could make his normally gentle Vulcan and was relieved that he hadn't required security to force his compliance this time.

"Nils," he said softly, frightened out of his wits but refusing to show it, "implement Operation Mad Dash."


	9. Chapter 9

Spock strode out to the patio of the beach "bungalow" that Kirk had rented, astonished by the speed with which he had found himself taken away from San Francisco, the Collegium, and Star Fleet itself.  
He was ashamed of his behavior with Mr. Scott and his staff, unable to associate his normal cool demeanor with that of the fuming animal that had destroyed the science section module that the engineers had been working over for so long.  
Though only in Santa Cruz, they might as well have been on another planet, since there were no other residences within visual range. That sense of isolation soothed his sense of being watched. Paranoia was a side-effect of pon farr, and he did what he could to acknowledge the reaction, yet not give it undue weight.  
Jim came to his side, still dressed in his uniform, handsome face rosy in the heat reflecting from the sand below the house. "I don't know about you, Spock," he said softly, "but I'm roasting. I'm changing out of this and into some swim gear."  
Spock nodded, torn between gratitude at Kirk's swift response to his oncoming time, and desire to touch him. Yet, even as his palms itched to stroke his skin, he desisted, refusing to yield to the fires just yet. His own clothes were a bothersome weight on his sensitive flesh and he followed Kirk into the master bedroom to change into more casual clothing, a pair of white cotton pants and loose tunic top was sufficient for the comfortable heat of the day.  
Swiftly, Kirk changed too, fumbling somewhat in his haste.  
The Vulcan moved to his side and laid a hand on a warm shoulder. "Jim," he said in an effort to gain his attention. His lover had been skittish with him since they had met at their apartment, packed lightly, and been driven by Neely to this site. A transporter would have been quicker than the thirty minute drive, but the transporter traffic within a large city would have caused more delays than the actual travel by aircar had.  
"I would not have you afraid of me," he murmured, and was relieved by Jim's quick and ready grin.  
"I'm not; just don't want to seem like I'm teasing you," he replied, gesturing to the bathing trunks he wore. They were loose enough for Jim to be at ease wearing them all day, but yet composed of a clinging material that outlined the high-riding buttocks and the bulge of his penis, resting to the right of his pubis.  
"We should speak of this, before it truly begins," he insisted, determined to do what he could to protect his fragile human.  
"Sounds good. Let me get a glass of ice water and we can go out to the porch and sit in the sun."  
Spock frowned, suddenly irritated by Kirk's normal take-charge manner. And yet he did not want to make the situation more difficult for his mate, and remained silent.  
When they had seated themselves at the outdoor patio, its padded chairs close by a glass table, he brusquely snapped, "This will be difficult. I know that you could not possibly prepare yourself for what will happen, and will make whatever—"  
"Spock, stop," Jim urged, one hand coming to stroke the hand resting on the table. "I've had a few more conversations with Seyjan, and then Bones, so I really do know what I've gotten myself into. All you have to do is tell me what you want and when you want it. It's that simple."  
As much as he wanted to believe that, he knew it to be false. "We are not as intimate as we should have been prior to the onset of the plak tow," he said bluntly. "What I require of you is your complete and utter submission. No denial of my desires will be acceptable. You are mine, and nothing you say or do, will change that fact."  
Jim's face flushed, and at first Spock thought it from fear, until his nose caught the scent of pheromones. "This excites you?"  
Kirk did not reply. Spock thought it possible he could not admit his desires in this matter.  
"If you are injured—"  
"McCoy's on stand-by," Jim interrupted, running his fingers over and around the rim of the weeping glass of ice water. "There's a second set of bedrooms so that, if it's necessary, he can come out here and put me back together in private."  
Spock considered that. "You have prepared as you could for this, have you not?"  
Kirk still wouldn't meet his eyes. "I didn't know when it was coming, but Seyjan told me a few things about Vulcan physiology that made me believe it might hit us pretty quickly after the bond was formed. You've obviously reached maturity, and it has been a few years since you hit the abort key with T'Pring, so. . . ."  
"You thought it far more realistic that my time would come upon us sooner rather than later. Eminently logical."  
Jim's smile was a blast of heat to his overexcited senses, but he bathed in it, feeling his mind reaching out for his mate. Th'y'la.  
I'm here, Kirk told him, his mind-voice calm and supportive, a strong resting place for his taxed psyche. It'll be okay, Spock. Don't fuss about it so much. Just let it happen.  
It is difficult to . . . let go of my control, even as it shreds under the demands of my flesh.  
What can I do to help?  
Spock gave a soft smile. You are every enticement I could want. Then, with an exhausted sigh, he fell to his knees before his mate. Grasping both hands in his own, he locked their gazes together, and formally asked, translating from the ancient Vulcan ritual: "Will you give yourself to me . . . withholding nothing . . . yielding all . . . until these moments of hunger, flame, and ash have passed?"  
"I freely yield my entirety."  
Pleased beyond acknowledgement that Kirk had bothered to learn the translation, he continued, "And grant absolution no matter the offense?"  
"Even unto death."  
Rising, Spock pulled Jim into his arms and held him close, tightly, releasing the stranglehold he had maintained until this moment of his emotions. "When did you learn the ritual?" he asked, curious.  
"Ironically, Seyjan sent it to me just a few days ago."  
"He always has been intuitive."  
Jim didn't reply, resting in his arms, his chin pillowed on Spock's shoulder. His manner was near-passive, a sense of waiting overtaking them both.  
"Do as you wish," Spock advised, releasing him. "I will call when I am in need."  
His lover nodded uncertainly, and then made his way to the ocean, its pull near as strong on Kirk as that of space. Spock returned to his chair and drank the balance of Jim's water, its coolness easing his parched throat. He watched Jim stand in the surf, hands on his hips, before bending and lifting something from the wet sand that was slowly engulfing his feet. Then he waded into the waves and began to swim.

 

Bones had followed Jim's instructions to the letter, knowing that their meticulous plans for "Operation Mad Dash" were important, both to maintain Spock's privacy, and to help their respective staffs fill the hole their rapid departures caused.  
In that vein, the academics had been advised that Spock would be on medical leave for the next ten days; Nogura and Stearns had received the same notification. McCoy would be around in the event either of his friends needed his expertise, whether in the physical or psychological mode.  
So it was with surprise that McCoy was called into the office of the Director of Star Fleet Operations, Ignatz Stearns. He stood calmly while being bellowed at, noting the other man's high blood pressure, as exhibited by his flushed face, the heavy packing of extra weight he carried about his waist, and the slight yellow tint to his skin that indicated liver disease. None of this was unusual in a Terran male of his age.   
However, the dark spotting about his temples was a diagnostic indicator that, as the medical gossip mill had murmured, Stearns was suffering from more than old age. The irregular blemishes warned that a particular virus had caused a virulent and fast-acting brain cancer to spread to his lymphatic system. The man before him did not have long to live, perhaps even weeks.  
". . . and if Kirk thinks he can just take off whenever the moment suits him—"  
He'd been standing there for almost three minutes while Stearns ranted before interrupting. "That's quite enough. If you want to have a stroke, just keep on going. Otherwise, you might want to tone your outrage down to a manageable level."  
The other man looked on the verge of an apoplectic fit.  
"Nogura hasn't called me into his office. Do you want to know why? Because he's aware that if Jim is away from his duty, it's for a damned fine reason. One that doesn't just affect him."  
"Hideo has always coddled Kirk!"  
"No, he hasn't," McCoy replied with a snap. "Jim's had his ass kicked more times that he cares to remember, because the chief doesn't let him get away with anything. So why isn't he kicking up a stink that both Jim and Spock are gone?"  
"Damned if I know," the other man responded, but his temper was at an obviously lower boil now.  
McCoy moved closer and leaned over the admiral's desk, to get them at eye level. "Because he's aware that if this illness of Spock's causes him to die . . . then there is every possibility that Kirk will follow within the next day, at the latest."  
That shook the old bastard up, McCoy noted with satisfaction as Stearns' jaw fell open, and his gaze narrowed to worried little pockets of black marble.  
"What?" he growled. "How could that happen? Kirk's not the type of man to commit suicide—"  
"They're bonded, Admiral. It's like. . ." How can I explain the undefinable? he remembered Jim asking one time. "Two people in one mind, so deeply connected that they know each other's thoughts, feelings . . . even, in some cases, to the extent of being able to draw information that one has learned through the link between them. It takes a long time to perfect a bond of that magnitude, but Vulcans live a long time. Usually."  
"Sounds like a lot of hot air to me," Stearns grumbled, but at a much lower volume.  
McCoy backed up, giving him his space. "Oh, come on now! You've read the reports from the Enterprise's voyage to Vulcan when Spock became ill the first time. You know how dangerous it all is. You just want to cry like a spoiled child when the fun kid has deserted his sandbox!" He let that sink in. "Jim's not doing this to annoy you. He's doing it because he has to. Is the timing right? Hell, no. Do they both have too many irons in the fire to just take off? Sure. But some things don't follow any schedule, and this is one of them."  
Stearns gave him a small smile. "No wonder they stuck you in Medical Operations. They needed a good kick in the ass to get them back to their jobs, and you'll provide that!"  
McCoy sighed. "At the very least. Was there anything else, Admiral, sir?"  
"I won't be around forever, McCoy. He needs to be ready."  
So that's it. "It's Sakura Syndrome, isn't it, sir?"  
The man's head came up sharply. "How did you know that?"  
The doctor gestured to the spots.  
"They tell me it's untreatable," the Admiral grumbled, his irascibility more understandable now. Though not painful, the symptoms were annoyingly neurological in nature, including blurry vision, neurasthenia, and vertigo.  
McCoy sighed. "I'm sorry that there's nothing we can do for you, sir," he said.   
The older man nodded, seeming to be resigned to his fate, and then returned to the subject. "I meant it; he's the only one I've found who could manage the Fleet on a war footing. He has to be ready for it."  
"He will be," McCoy insisted, and then more softly, said, "Jim will take care of us. You've got to know that."  
The old admiral closed his eyes for a long moment. "I do. It won't be easy for him."  
"He's never had it easy, sir," he offered, caught in the moment of the old lion realizing his time was near. "He wouldn't know what to do if it was."  
"You take care of him, McCoy. He's a little rough around the edges yet, but that boy's got what it takes to save us all."   
The doctor looked at the admiral for a long moment, having no idea what he was talking about. And then Stearns sat up, and gestured with a long hand. "Out. I have work to do."  
Saddened by the thought of this magnificent man finding his mortality all too soon, and realizing that there was nothing that could be done to aid him, he left the office with a nod of real admiration.

 

Kirk had no idea what to expect. He was a mixture of nervous, excited, anticipatory, and hesitant, all at the same time.  
They ate a light dinner of wild salmon and greens for Kirk and tomato soup and salad for Spock; the bungalow's kitchen had been well-stocked with everything they could possibly want. The Vulcan's appetite was poor, and his dark eyes seemed to become almost ebony in the light from the candles on the table, his carved features sharply defined, shadowy contours etched into his face that normally weren't noticed during the day.  
He was aroused; Kirk could seen the widely-expanded pupil, the way he licked his upper lip, and how his gaze traveled across Jim's body, seeming to see beneath the shirt and shorts he wore. He hadn't spoken since this afternoon and, in a way, it felt like Jim was here with a stranger, one who followed him everywhere he went. The Vulcan didn't let him out of his sight, occasionally coming closer to stroke a long finger lightly against his lips, or to catch his scent at the nape of his neck.  
The Spock who was with him now was not the one he had served with for five long years, or even spent the past few months with. This Spock was a sensually focused predator, one who wanted him in a way that Kirk had never known in his life. And as much as it unnerved him, it was arousing in its own fashion too. When the Vulcan did finally speak, it was in a deeply intense tone that made him tingle.  
"I am aware that you cannot help but fight me on some level; that which I will ask you to give is, most likely, more than you can readily share. This concerns me. I would not wish you to injure yourself in the coming struggle. But such issues are moot now."  
Jim knew, in some corner of his mind, that Spock had never released his full strength on his too-vulnerable human form. It was a valid concern. But he had no easy solutions either.  
Whatever it was he had expected, it had not been Spock reaching out and tossing him over his shoulder like some virgin caught up in a barbarian raid. His immediate reaction was to struggle, but he stifled it as quickly as he could, the tenseness of Spock's arm over the backs of his legs an unintended warning that he would not tolerate any dissent.  
He was casually tossed on the big bed in the master bedroom, its striped blue and gold coverlet slightly rough against the backs of his legs. He swallowed, then leaned up on his arms and reached to take off his shorts.  
"No," Spock snapped from where he stood, at the end of the bed, closing the shades against the early-evening light, lending it a cave-like atmosphere. The temperature in the room was comfortable to Jim, but he found he was sweating anyway. He dropped his hands away from his clothing, and remained where he was, his hands falling limply to his sides.  
Moments later he was glad the few clothes he'd brought were old and faded, for Spock stripped him without concern for their continued use. The shirt went first, torn diagonally from shoulder to hip with as much effort as it would take to shred tissue. It fell to rags on the coverlet, baring his chest to the air and the Vulcan's voracious gaze. Apparently satisfied by the picture that made, Spock slowly trailed two fingers down the middle of Kirk's chest, sliding down until they stopped abruptly at the waist of his shorts.  
"If you wanted me naked, you just had to ask," Jim murmured, his hands moving slightly to rest on the string tie.  
Spock removed his own clothes in like fashion, the tattered remains on the floor around him. He didn't speak, but his head turned, giving Kirk that confused expression he didn't see on his brilliant Vulcan all that often, usually being reserved for the most complex questions that could be asked.  
He shimmied out of the shorts and tossed them to the floor, deciding he would save whatever clothes he could or he'd have to have pants delivered to go home in.  
He rested on his elbows, watching the Vulcan. Spock now seemed hesitant, uncertain whether to go forward or back before he whispered, "Please," his voice low and rough. "Don't let me hurt you, Jim. That-that would destroy me."  
And in that moment, Kirk finally, finally, got it—he understood, at last, just what Spock had been trying to tell him. He had willingly locked himself up with a stranger, an alien whose biological imperative was for his own species' reproduction, a continuation that must occur at all costs. There would be no quarter given here; he could either yield or die in the effort.  
Prior to this moment, it had all been words, and more words. But now, with the narrow face drawn down into an intense, lustful expression, he shivered in dawning recognition of what would really happen here.  
And knew he would fight it, just as Spock had feared.  
As much as he wanted to disassociate himself from his body in that terrified second, Spock's hungry touch wouldn’t allow it. He could feel the heat of him as the Vulcan climbed upon the bed, crawling over him, sniffing his skin like he could never get enough of his scent. Lips nuzzled a flat nipple to rigidity before taking it into his mouth and pulling, suckling hard, causing shooting sparks of sensation to fly down Kirk's body, arching his back. He pushed into that heat, wanting to grasp Spock's head, but worried about anything that might make Spock think he wanted more than this simple sensuality.  
Lean fingers squeezed his other nipple with painstaking attention, and Jim bit his lip against the groan. Damn it, Spock knew what he liked and had never been shy about giving it to him. Abandoning this tender flesh, the Vulcan's hand wandered down to his groin, carding his fingers through the sensitive hair there, pulling it lightly. His cock stirred, coming to swift, hard life; the hand switched to tease the head with a fingernail, adding skimming touches along the length before grasping it more fully, just the heat of his hand making Jim moan.  
Teeth squeezed the nub of his nipple once, hard, before Spock moved to take the other between his lips, exploring it fully before latching on with teeth and tormenting the flesh with his tongue. Kirk's head thrashed on the bedspread, it's silken coolness a contrast to the temperature of his skin. Spock's hand pumped him, increasing his desire before releasing him. The heat of Spock's body deserted Kirk, leaving him breathless and alone for only a moment before his cock was heated by the wet swab of Spock's tongue slowly laving the length of him.  
Jim gasped, his chest coming off the bed, his hips held down by Spock's merciless grip. He was so aroused in that moment he couldn't care what Spock was going to do to him, as long as he put his mouth there. Right there, as his tongue teased the bundle of thick nerves under the head, and then nuzzled the tiny area with his teeth, before running them along his length in the same way. Jim bent his legs up and spread them, his feet flat, wanting more, unable to prevent this wanton movement, and aware what that simple step might mean to the Vulcan that owned him.  
He cried out and held on to the spread, crushing the fabric in his hands in an attempt not to grab Spock's head and force it further onto him. There was a feral chuckle from the Vulcan and the hot, warm cave of his mouth descended to his sac, licking him there roughly like some particularly bumpy sweet, before taking first one teste into his mouth and rolling it like he hadn't decided whether he liked the consistency yet. Kirk cried out wildly as the sharp teeth closed lightly over it, no doubt leaving a visible line in the soft tissue before doing the same to its brother.  
Sweating and panting now in the formerly cool room, Jim could feel his cock tapping against his belly, depositing sticky drops on his skin, painting him in his own desire. He looked down his body, seeing Spock's normally immaculate hair mussed, his expression ravaged, his eyes incandescent with lust. The Vulcan moved in a catlike pounce, rising up over his cock, smearing Kirk's pre-cum over his lips before licking it off. The dark gaze flared with hunger; Spock swallowed him like his mouth had been made just for him, as if he had been created for this singular event, the thick head of Jim's cock sliding deeply into this throat. His eyes closed in satisfaction, and Jim's head fell back, his heart banging away inside his chest, fire eating into his hidden soul.  
Spock was in no hurry to give up his treat. He suckled the hot, heavy width of him, devouring it like food Spock had wanted but rarely tasted. Kirk could do nothing but squirm, Spock's hands grasping his hips to keep him where he wanted him. He cursed softly before reaching down to brush Spock's hair with his fingers in silent pleading.  
When Kirk twisted away, the friction of lips and tongue too much for him to bear, Spock would pull him back, drag him closer, make him endure it, absorb the demand of his desire until it made air sob out of his lungs in a frenzy as his cock-head was squeezed by the rigid muscles of Spock's throat.  
When Spock finally allowed it, Kirk orgasmed so hard he saw stars behind his eyes, and jackknifed up, his abdomen rigid as he shot and shot and shot, his fingers tight in Spock's hair as he pumped wildly, completely breaking the rhythm that Spock had held him in for so long.  
But the Vulcan did not let him go. He swallowed it all, every drop, and sucked for more, his tongue attempting to pry into the fissure of his cock and pull out the last fluid offering. When Jim was finally dry, he reached down to his own organ and pulled once, twice, his resounding cry that of a being tortured by the one he loved . . . and confirming that if it meant he would keep that love, he could torment him forever.

 

His mate lay on the bed, temporarily sated.  
But he was not. Each time he reached the heights outside the depths of his mate's body, the demand to bury himself within him grew more fierce.  
There was only one sure way to sate the hunger that even now sank painful claws of insistent desire from his spine to his scrotum, stiffening his member with fiery licks of unquenchable longing. No words could explain this yearning; no other than his bond-mate could hope to fulfill it.  
He glanced down, no emotion but that of lust making its way into his core. The human was beautiful and his; there was no reason he should not take what he needed from his recumbent form. But still he hesitated, a sound like that of a strident scream echoing through the vaults of his mind.  
He waited, noting the sweat upon the silky, cool skin, and leaned down to lap at the hollow of his throat, enjoying the salty taste of his water. Still upon his tongue, he could taste the thicker fluid of his cream, the odd salty-sweet flavor of it intriguing, insisting he learn all of his mate's spices.  
Upon the human's thigh, his organ lay damp and shriveled, the head rosy still. His teeth ached to sample it again, but he resisted, knowing that there were further areas to savor, some that had never been breached by another.  
Excited by that thought, his organ nodded, reaching higher against his belly, its intent that of divining what lay between his mate's thighs, the hidden darkness a channel that just might ease the agony of his desire.  
As much as he wanted to thrust himself within, some unseen hand held him back. He growled softly, deep in his throat, unable to resist the insistent coercion of its power, demanding he not injure the mate, the only one in all of his wanderings who could quench this awesome fire.  
Prowling over his mate again, he sniffed his face, the scent of his flesh attracting him. The green-gold eyes were wide, and there was the added flavor of alarm in his aroma, one that made his mouth open and taste the lips so close to his own.  
Hungrily, he pressed the human down, grasping his arms, and invading the cool depths of his mouth. His mate did not attempt to resist him, their lips and mouth easily meeting and devouring as deeply as they dared.  
The human was delicious; his teeth bit lightly on lips and tongue, urging the fire higher with each lick and murmured exhalation. Single-minded in his intent to map more of his mate's body, he moved his tongue downwards, over every muscular dent and hillock, over sternum, ribs and soft belly. His mate squirmed there, chuckling and laughing lightly, his legs moving, spreading slightly. He latched onto a prominent hip and nibbled on the bone for a long moment, until the pleasure became pain, and his mate's resistance became stronger, legs locking around his ribs and pressing tightly.  
Giving a last lick to the tasty protuberance, he swept further downwards, past the shrinking sex, the furred globes of his sac, and down the sturdy legs, already showing darker patches of golden skin from just a day under the Terran sun.  
He snarled in remembrance; the clothing his mate had worn was insufficient for others to gaze upon him. It was good that none but he had seen him so near nude, or they would pay for it with their lives after they had been taught the dangers of their encroachment. His mate was his, alone, and none dare trespass.  
Reaching the fine-boned feet, he was startled by his mate's abrupt movement to evade him. Fury lanced his soul, until he heard the human's soft chuckle. "I'm ticklish, remember?"  
The words meant nothing to him, a language he could barely comprehend in this state. But the sound . . . the affection in that tone could not be so easily dismissed. His lips traced the blue veins of one foot, noting the calluses of years of constant exercise with his fingers, gripping the tense appendage as it was nearly pulled away from him. Twisting it, his mate's legs were forced to follow, and he was rolled onto his belly with little effort.  
He continued his voyage, stroking the arch of a foot, the hard, thick muscle of a calf, the wide, strong muscles of the thigh, his lips making a heated foray beneath the high arch of the buttocks. The human squirmed, wriggling to avoid his mouth, but he would not be denied. When he nipped his mate here, he could smell his arousal, the scent a potent aphrodisiac, though he needed none now.  
His tongue followed his lips, tracing the seam between, tightening his hands on strong thighs that attempted to move him. The sound he released was one of warning then, a command to remain still and not to resist. The human froze for a long moment, before his thrashing began anew.  
"Spock! No," he cried out, his back rising in renewed struggle.  
His teeth bent the soft tissue beneath his mouth, and the human cried out again. Aware that his mate could not help his behavior, though uncertain of why that should be so, he grasped the human's hips and placed his own weight upon his legs, crushing his resistance with the simple expedient of his denser mass.  
Now he was able to use two hands to spread the tense cheeks wide and lap within. A pheromone cloud bloomed around them and he moved even closer, aching to penetrate this secret portal.

 

Jim moaned softly as Spock lay down over his legs, making it impossible for him to escape. It was like trying to move with a horse lying over you; unless it decided to get up, you weren't going anywhere. His hands fisted into the spread, and his cock was pressed against the bed, its soft surface giving it a yielding place to rest.  
He closed his eyes as he felt hot hands spread his butt cheeks wide. Oh, god. He had never much cared if a woman had touched him there; it was sexy, sure, but he'd never felt this kind of . . . anticipation before, half-terror draining into pleasure. He waited for Spock's finger to touch him, stroke him, and nearly shot out of his skin when a fever-hot tongue tasted him instead of the expected digit.  
His recently spent cock twitched and began to lengthen, his balls shuddering inside their comfortable case. "No," he groaned, protesting, though he couldn't have said why. It felt . . . fantastic. No matter how he attempted to writhe, resist or deny what was happening, Spock continued to lap at his hole, leaving a hot-wet sensation against this most sensitive skin, the puckered opening twitching occasionally, before falling into an insistent rhythm of tension and release that swiftly reduced him to a softly moaning bundle of nerve endings, all of them centered at the base of his spine, arrowing directly to the core of him, and then to his cock.  
The sounds made weren't words, just syllables, notes with no discernible function or reason to them other than to bleed out some of the sensation that was turning his resistance to passion, fear to fervor and, horror to hunger. Spock never stopped, his tongue making a heated foray inside the portal when it finally gaped open, surrendering itself to the spear of his tongue.  
With a cry, Jim attempted to thrust back, unable to deny just what this was doing to him. After a moment, Spock shifted just enough that Kirk could get his own knees a little closer to his stomach, the arch of his body, lifting him so that his ass was thrust upwards at an obscene angle, but at that particular moment he didn't care what he looked like. It felt so good, so damned good. He fisted himself in an awkward manner, thrusting into his hand, and then back onto the spear of Spock's tongue, moaning deep in his throat at the thickness of it stretching the round muscle further.  
"Oh, Spock, please . . . let me come!" he cried, feverishly stropping his cock in his hand, while his lover fiercely ate at him, saliva dripping deep within, his teeth catching the tender skin, abrading the guardian muscle until it spasmed, sending Kirk head over heels into an orgasm so intense he screamed and lost his grip on his cock, lost in the need to push back and be pierced as deeply as possible.

 

He liked the flavor and the wild gyrations of his mate beneath him. When the human collapsed, his seed spent, he continued to tease and tempt the channel, luring it to part even wider.  
His mate groaned softly, unable to resist him in these hot, intimate moments, so he slid one finger completely inside him. The human attempted to refuse entry, but the portal was so stretched, so welcoming, that there was little that he was able to do to prevent it. Liking the sounds he made, he removed his forefinger and returned with two digits, his saliva leaving a trail wet enough for him to enter without difficulty.  
The human twisted, but there was no strength to it, and Spock simply waited until his fight was exhausted, before leaning down once more to lave the now full entry. His mate moaned deeply, something pained in his voice. Not wishing to cause hurt when such could be prevented, he reached down and swept his own pre-ejaculate from the weeping and dark jade head of his penis, then thrust the fingers back inside the human. Ah, that was better, he thought, the movement far swifter and easier with a lubricant. Deciding that his own ejaculate was insufficient in volume, he eased away from his mate, and looked about for a fat or oil that could be used in its place. His gaze alighting on a tube of some kind, he snapped off the cap and spread it on his fingers. Determining that it would be sufficient, he returned to the bed, and began to anoint his mate's opening with the cream.

 

Jim couldn't move. Every muscle in his body had become looser than an Argelian's conscience by the explosive orgasm he'd just had. And even now, his cock was standing by, as if it were just waiting for the next round.  
Spock had stepped away after finger-fucking him expertly, and he lay stunned and weary, panting just to get enough air into his body so he wouldn't black out. In all the worry about his Vulcan's soul, he'd let himself forget about Vulcan stamina.  
Surprised by Spock's return, he expected him to lie down and rest. He didn’t expect his ass to be invaded by long slick fingers determined to arouse him again. Tentatively, he shifted, attempting to evade the firm attempt at opening him further, but didn’t get even a few inches before Spock's deep growl sounded at his ear. The Vulcan didn't appear to be able to use words right now, but the intensity of his sounds was a more than sufficient warning.  
Just then, one of the fingertips nailed his prostate, and Kirk just about sat up in surprise at the jolt of pure sensation that travelled from the tiny bud to the rest of his body, especially his tired cock. It shuddered and began to thicken, shocking him with its arousal. Spock didn’t stop there, working him deeply and deftly, his intensity of focus so fierce that he used one arm to keep him from moving while the other pummeled his hole.  
"You’re killing me," Kirk muttered, so weary he couldn't believe his cock thought it would rise again.  
As a third finger entered him, he shuddered, the sharp pain of overstretched muscles causing a deep ache to form. "It hurts," he whispered, hoping there was something of his Spock left inside the Vulcan that hungered so fiercely. His words were ignored and he was thrust inside a maelstrom of fear, pain, and terrified desire, as the man he loved was subsumed by his nature into an animal that required his body for surcease.  
He was startled when Spock easily flipped him over onto his back, his fingers still deep inside him, spinning as he moved. Jim let out a moan as they were thrust deeper, the knuckles opening him further. His legs were nudged upwards, and rested upon Spock's shoulders, no evidence that he even noticed their weight, so intent was he on his goal.  
Kirk trembled from the onslaught, both psychologically and physically. Unlike the last time Spock had taken control of their lovemaking, his mate and best friend was nowhere to be found. This person demanded his obedience, and would drill him to his core and beyond to get what he needed.  
Sweat dripped from Spock's face, his hair a haystack tangle of silky strands that fell every which way. His lips were rough and chafed, eyes red and sunken, and his chest heaved to gain oxygen. His gaze was intent in their object, but there was such a sense of pain there, too, that Kirk could not escape their lure.  
He remembered what Spock had asked him, the first time they had made love his way: Do you trust me?  
Jim's automatic response had been yes, but this was not that man. Or was it? Was the Spock he knew held down by the pressures of his unique biology? Or was he just allowing himself to take what he believed had been his right all along? He didn't know, and had no time to think on it now.  
Spock bent his knees beneath him, lifting Jim's hips upwards and onto the tensely muscled thighs of his lap, Jim's legs falling around Spock's body. The Vulcan's fingers were still deep inside him, twining and stretching the channel until there was no resistance to be had there any longer. Knowing what was coming next, and powerless to stop it, panic caused his muscles to jump, and in moments his mind had followed. But Spock was ahead of him; he arched over him and with one hand around his throat, kept Kirk from his planned escape. The dark eyes that looked deeply into own held one emotion now: hunger.  
The snub head of Spock's cock pressed against his now-free hole, nudging the tired portal until it spread itself around the thick crown and allowed it to sink within.  
Kirk howled, torn between rage and pain, desire and love. The Vulcan ignored the sound, leaning lightly forward—carefully, but decisively, sinking deeper and deeper within. Tears ran from his eyes, but it wasn't from agony. The pain was swiftly abolished by the sense of peace that invaded Spock's gaze, lightening the near-ebony depths to their usual warm brown. His thrusts were small, measured, without any of the violence Kirk had expected from a coupling of this kind.  
He was sweating and trembling by the time Spock had fully sheathed himself, and jumped when the thick head brushed his prostate. The little gland was resting right against the ridged crown, and it felt so hot and hard Kirk was certain he was going to need a hospital when this was finally over.  
Yet when Spock began to push in, then out, his thrusts were minute, calculated to acclimate his channel to the force it would soon meet. He released his grip on Kirk's neck, and placed his hands on his hips instead, using them like handles to create a rhythmic beat of push and pull that soon had Kirk moaning in cadence as his ass was taken. Each time Spock pushed deeper within, the flaring, ridged head of his cock brushed Jim's prostate, sending sparks into his tired flesh, and bringing his own organ to hot, heavy and pulsing life. He doubted he had any jizz left, but it didn’t matter at this point. From now on, it was all about Spock.  
He wasn't in pain any longer; that had been banished some time before by the heavy, drugging pull of need, a primitive hunger to be owned enveloping Jim Kirk in a way he could never have expected. Only Spock had been able to overwhelm him like that, to make him take it and like it, until he was a mewling, moaning bundle of overwrought hunger. "Fuck me!" he cried, urging Spock on, his legs tense with the need to come, and wanting to hold back until Spock did. "Harder!"  
Unsatisfied by something, Spock pulled completely out, making Jim groan with the sensation of wetness and cool air on his shrinking opening. He was turned on his chest, manhandled into a better position until he was finally on his hands and knees once more, and Spock's cock was pushed hungrily against his hole again.  
"Yes," Jim whispered, and Spock sank into him to the root, the ridged head flaring wider, filling him until there was no more to give, until he was completely packed, and then pulling back, and beginning the torment all over again. He rode him for forever, the slick sound of wet flesh smacking together as Spock gave it to him, not holding back, pulling Jim back onto him again and again.  
Kirk came on his cock, his ass spasming around the heavy tool that pummeled him to orgasm, and then began the climb again, until his breath was a sawing agony in his chest, his arms and legs ached with the strain, and his ass was numb with the continuing friction.  
With a last coherent thought, Kirk ground down on Spock's cock, locking his muscles around his straining organ, feeling himself losing it once more, his cock releasing nothing but a few wet drops before Spock filled him to the brim and over with his hot, thick juice, its heat feeling like it was scalding tender tissues, opening his mouth in a scream that was barely out of his throat before another began, a release unlike anything he had ever known taking control of him, leaving him thrashing on the end of Spock's thick, meaty, pole, speared and owned and loving it.  
He barely felt one of Spock's hands come to rest at his temple, the fingers spread in the usual position for a meld. They were hot and pressed deeply into places that meant little to him, but aided the Vulcan in whatever he sought. He heard Spock's cry of completion, so caught up in his own that he could sense nothing but the tightness of his balls, the tenderness of his cock, and the fierce sense of possession that invaded his heart before a sharp pain struck him, made him scare as his skull pounded in a too-fast rhythm, and darkness drove him down to an exhausted sleep, cradled in his bond-mate's arms.


	10. Chapter 10

EPILOGUE

The insubstantial being known as an Organian looked down upon the worn body of the Terran, Stearns.  
The human's eyes were open and still aware, though the cloudiness of approaching Death was fast overtaking the shimmer from the black orbs.  
"Tell me they'll be all right," the man asked, his voice weary, but resolute. Oddly, he was not startled by the Organian presence.  
It spoke directly into his mind. The future is mutable. We believe that he will save your people . . . and mine. But one lifetime may not be enough for all that is required.  
"Then you make sure . . . they have more. That Vulcan . . . can't separate them."  
I do not foresee their separation.  
The Terran's body became loose, its soul reaching out. At the last moment, his fleshy cage stiffened in alarm.   
Do not fear. I will wait until the universe takes you back.  
"Is . . . there . . . anything beyond?"  
The light shimmered more brightly. How could there not?  
And between one sigh and the next, the human known as Stearns ceased to exist in this form and moved on to the next.  
The Organian shivered as he felt the spirit leave the crumbling body, its light only a mere flicker compared to its own. It sped away, a swift dart of fire submerged within the greater light of the universe.  
Its body sparkled as it became even more insubstantial and eventually, faded away, its duty done.


End file.
